


Beelzebub Has a Devil Put Aside For Me

by remy (iamremy), SPNxBookworm, WinchesterPooja (chronic_potterphile)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dancer Sam, Drama, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Permanent Injury, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10068974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPNxBookworm/pseuds/SPNxBookworm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronic_potterphile/pseuds/WinchesterPooja
Summary: Sam is an up and coming dancer living with his supportive big brother Dean, both of them blissfully unaware that this is not their real world. Everything changes when Sam has a life-altering accident, and suddenly neither of them is sure of anything anymore. In the struggle to find out what’s real and what isn’t, they rediscover everything about themselves that they had forgotten - including the fact that the Devil wants to wear Sam to the prom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo! So here it is! Our first ever collab as a trio. Never thought we’d see this dream become reality so soon. 
> 
> We were very lucky to have the amazing [happilysammy](http://sunshinesam.co.vu/) choose our summary and make amazing art for it. It’s so cute, guys! And so perfect! She captured the essence of the fic perfectly and her style make us want to cry tears of joy. Please, please check out her art [here!](http://sunshinesam.co.vu/post/157944588545/authors-winchesterpooja-chestercbennington-and).
> 
> Our beta, [quickreaver](http://quickreaver.tumblr.com/) is just the best. She took us up despite how busy she is and helped us make this thing readable. Thank you, Cris. <3
> 
> Also, thank you, mods of the Sam Winchester Big Bang for hosting this! Loving Sammy is truly the best kind of love there is. He doesn’t nearly get enough of it. Poor bby.
> 
> And without further ado, we’d like to direct you to the story. Hope it makes you smile, laugh, cry and growl as much as we did when we wrote it. 
> 
> -Sanjana, Naila and Pooja

 

 

Sam gets up the first time the alarm rings, the tone a slightly off-key but somehow still loving rendition of _Hey Jude_. Dean's already up; Sam knows this because Dean's bed is empty, and also because there is a slight smell of burnt bacon in the air.

Groaning to himself, he gets out of bed and pads off to the kitchen, where sure enough, he finds Dean trying to manage a frying pan full of sizzling bacon and his phone at the same time. The client on the other end is yelling so loudly Sam can hear it across the room. Catching Dean's eye, he grimaces in sympathy before heading off to the bathroom.

Dean's used up all the hot water again, he thinks irritably as he gets into the shower. Whatever's left is a sickly lukewarm at best, and Sam sighs to himself as he gets under the spray. There's an ache in his joints that won't go away, and some hot water would've done him good. He makes a mental note to talk to Dean about it later.

The mindless, mechanical motions of showering leave his brain free to think of something else, and he begins planning out his day instead. Shower. Breakfast. Studio. Practice. Some more practice. And then some more, until he is perfect.

Rinse. Repeat. Do over. Repeat until desired results are obtained.

Dedication is key.

Perfection is an achievable goal.

Setbacks are nonexistent.

His joints ache. The cold water doesn't help. He ignores the pain and carries on.

Dedication. Perseverance. Perfection. Success.

**~o~**

Dean's off the phone when Sam exits the shower, and is waiting for him at their small table with a plate of slightly overdone bacon. Sam chooses not to comment on it, instead taking his seat and quietly digging in. Dean, seated across from him, eats his own breakfast in silence, his phone next to his plate.

Eventually Sam asks, "Angry client?"

Dean sighs irritably. "Says his car stalled again. I fucking _told_ him to get his engine looked at, but he insists it's because of the tires. Says to change them all over again."

Sam snorts. "Tell him if he's so smart, he can fix his own car himself."

"I wish," Dean says, "but he pays well, so." He shrugs. "Rich people, man, what can ya do. What about you? What are you doing today?"

"Same old," Sam replies, finishing up his bacon and pouring himself some OJ. "Practice till I'm perfect."

"Or till your feet fall off." There is a furrow of concern between Dean's eyebrows. "Sam, this can't be healthy, man."

"I'm fine. it's not like this is the first time."

"That doesn't make me feel better," mutters Dean.

"Well, what else can I do?" Sam argues. "I can't practice any less than I already do, Dean, the show is in a week!"

"And you're already perfect!" Dean retorts. "I'm damn sure no one else is working as hard as you are, Sammy. Give yourself some rest."

"After the show," Sam says, attempting to negotiate. When Dean doesn't look convinced, he adds, "I promise."

"Fine," concedes Dean. "If I catch you dancing after the show, so help me, Sam, I'll tie you down."

"Whatever," mutters Sam.

**~o~**

The ride to the studio is a quiet one. Dean is humming along to the radio, some lady's husky, homely Beatles cover, and Sam chooses to use this free time to go over his steps in his head. He doesn't even realize the car's stopped until Dean nudges him with his elbow.

"Earth to Sammy."

"What? Oh." He blinks, realizing they're parked outside his studio. "Thanks. I'll call you when it's time to pick me up."

Dean nods. "Before midnight."

"Dean—" Sam begins, exasperated, but Dean isn't done yet.

"Or I'll call Jess."

"No," hisses Sam. "She'll kill me."

Dean smirks. "Exactly."

"Ugh," groans Sam. "I hate you."

"You too, bitch!" Dean calls after Sam as he stomps off.

**~o~**

_One two three four_

Ded – i – ca – tion

_Five six seven eight_

Per – sev – er – ance

_One two three four_

Per – fec – tio – on

_Five six seven eight_

Success.

You've got this, Sam persuades himself when he stops for a break, watching himself in the mirror. Some of his hair's escaped from his bun, and is plastered to his face with sweat. His clothes are soaked through, and his chest is heaving. The burn in his muscles is a vindictive pleasure.

He reaches for his water bottle, ignoring the sudden _pop_ his wrist makes, and takes a few sips before setting it down. "You got this," he tells himself, looking himself in the eye through the wall of mirrors. "You can do it."

He doesn't realize he's not alone until he hears his understudy Jake say, "Sam, man, you've got to rest. You're killing yourself here."

"I'm fine," replies Sam, his tone careful. He likes Jake; he's easygoing enough, but he doesn't exactly trust him. He doesn't really trust anyone here. Everyone's out for blood.

His, to be precise.

"If you say so." Jake shrugs. "Mind if I practice with you?"

Sam shrugs in response. "Okay, I guess."

"You can point out my mistakes," Jake says.

"I don't think there are any." In truth, Sam wants to practice alone. He doesn't want to see Jake dance. He doesn't want to even entertain the possibility that Jake will go onstage in his place, for any reason whatsoever.

It's not happening, not after everything Sam's sacrificed to get here. Period.

"You're too kind," Jake says, with a smile. He walks up to Sam until they're just three feet apart, and takes on the starting stance. "Let's do this thing, then," he says, and begins dancing.

He's good, thinks Sam as he watches him out of the corner of his eye. Almost as good as Sam. Almost, because no one works as hard as Sam does, puts in the hours Sam does, is as obsessively dedicated as Sam is. No one has Sam's graceful, fluid moves, his intensity, his expression of himself through carefully chosen choreography.

_One two three four_

His knee twinges. He ignores it, keeps going, keeps surreptitiously watching Jake.

_Five six seven eight_

It's almost lunchtime. He's hungry, but he doesn't want to waste time eating. Practice makes perfect. He needs to be perfect.

_One two three four_

Jake is a little out of step, but Sam doesn't think he knows. He keeps dancing on, making no move to correct himself. Sam wants to stop, to help him, but holds himself back. After this dance.

_Five six seven eight_

Jake's caught sight of himself in the mirror, and caught on. He corrects himself immediately, and despite himself Sam feels proud. He's trained this guy. He's helped him come this far.

Hopefully, under Sam's guidance, Jake can go on to be so much more than an understudy.

They dance on, fluid and elegant and united, through movement if nothing else. Sam's feet beat against the wooden floor in time with his heart, and he can hear the rush of his blood in his ears. There is nothing else in the world right now.

 

**~o~**

Dean sighs when Sam slides into the front seat, at half past one. "I said midnight," he chides, but he sounds more tired than angry.

"I know," Sam replies shortly, shutting the door after himself. "I lost track of the time."

"I don't like you being alone in there," Dean says, not beginning to drive just yet.

"Dean, I'm not a kid," argues Sam, slumping against the comfortable seat. "And besides, Jake was with me."

Dean frowns, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't trust that guy. I don't know what it is about him, but I don't trust him. I feel like he's gonna stab you in the back somehow."

Sam considers this, and realizes that in all the time he's known Jake, he's been incredibly careful never to turn his back on him. It's strange how literal Dean's comment is, especially when Sam thinks about his behavior around his understudy. The funny thing is how much he thought he could trust Jake until now, when Dean's voiced his doubts.

"He's not bad," Sam says anyway, in a lame effort to try to defend Jake, though he's not sure why he's bothering. He trusts Dean, and Dean trusts his instincts. "You know he helps me out with the kids sometimes."

"All the same," Dean retorts. "Something's fishy about that guy. I don't like you being alone with him, and especially not at this time."

"You do realize I'm not a kid, right?" Sam asks rhetorically.

Dean opts not to reply. The 2010 Dodge Charger pulls out of the parking and begins heading home. The radio is turned off.

The silence is thick, deafening, and Sam knows that Dean's not happy with him. He can't help it though. It's not like he _enjoys_ working himself to the bone—okay, maybe he does. But he also _needs_ this. And Dean knows this.

"Dean," he begins, wondering if Dean will understand.

"I get it, Sammy," Dean interrupts. "I know this is your big break, man. But you can't keep doing this to yourself. Look at you. You're skinny as fuck, Sammy, 'cause you don't eat. All you do is dance."

"Dean—"

"I ain't saying it's a bad thing, Sam. I know it makes you happy. But you can't let it kill you."

"It's not gonna kill me—"

"I'm not gonna stop you, okay? I know I can't. But after the show, you're resting. You're giving yourself a break, and dammit, you're gonna look after yourself or so help me, Sam—"

"Thank you," Sam says suddenly. He had this entire argument planned out in his head since morning, knowing that Dean wouldn't be happy, that Dean would want him to stop. But Dean's gone bizarrely off-script, in a rare moment of compromise and understanding, and it means something, it does. It means Dean's thought about this, and is ready to let Sam do it his own way as long as he rests afterwards.

It means a lot.

Dean doesn't reply, clearly as surprised as Sam is about the lack of argument. "This isn't how I'd planned it in my head," he says, frowning.

"Same," laughs Sam. "You know what," he adds, a sudden idea forming in his mind. "After all this is over, let's you and me go somewhere. Just take a break from everything."

"Uh, sure." Dean looks nonplussed. "Like where?"

"Why don't we join Mom on her vacation?" Sam suggests. "She'll like that, I think, especially with Dad's death anniversary coming up. I don't want her to be alone."

Dean considers the idea for a few moments, driving in silence, deep in thought. Then he says, "Hell. Why not?"

Sam grins. "Great."

Dean smiles back despite himself. The issue is momentarily solved.

**~o~**

Every single one of Sam's aches makes itself known the moment he settles into bed; his twinging knee, his hip, the ankle he sprained a couple days ago. His stomach rumbles, even though he's just had dinner. It feels like nothing he eats these days is ever enough, but he's got to watch his diet. Less carbs, more protein. Energy. Muscle mass. Stamina. _Strength_.

_It'll be better by morning_ , he tries to convince himself, shifting to find a comfortable position. Dean is already snoring away in the bed next to his, face down in the pillow. Sam debates getting up to find painkillers or a hot water bottle but knows the noise will wake Dean, who will be curious, and then angry.

So he clenches his teeth and bears it stoically, resolving to get up first the next morning and get to the hot water before Dean can.

**~o~**

He practices with music the next day, letting the sound guide his limbs, letting it permeate every cell of his body so that he feels saturated with it. He's alone, though he knows it's only a matter of time before Jake arrives, and so he resolves to practice as much as he can in the solitude available to him.

This is his moment. He's got this in the bag, he can _do_ this. He has to. He's worked too hard for this, come too far to fail now. Nothing less than success is an option. Nothing short of perfection will do.

He's got to prove himself to everyone that's ever doubted him. He needs to show Dean what he's capable of. Needs to make his mother proud, needs to honor his father's memory. Dad never got to see him dance. A drunk driver made sure of that. And while he and John had their differences, Sam has no doubt that if his dad were alive, he would've been in the front seat, rooting for his son.

God, he misses Dad. Misses him so much. He wishes he could've been closer to his father, could've understood him while he was still alive. Wishes he could hug him now, tell him how sorry he is for everything.

God, if only.

The music swells; he's flying gracefully, arcing through the air like he belongs in it—

and then he's on the floor, his ankle throbbing, his teeth clenched against the pain. He must've landed wrong, he thinks, something that hasn't happened in months. He's unreasonably angry at himself for it. This is unacceptable. This won't do at all. He might as well sabotage himself.

Angrily he struggles to his feet and cuts off the music mid-note, leaning against the bar on the wall for support. Gingerly he tests his foot, checking to see if it can take his weight—and even if it can't, dammit he'll _make_ it support him. It hurts something awful, but he thinks he can take it.

He can't afford to waste time anyway, not at this crucial stage.

He reaches towards the music player to restart the song.

His phone rings. It's not Dean, since Dean knows better than to call him when he's practicing, and it can't be Mom, since she's off vacationing in Paris or someplace. That leaves just one person.

He sighs, shuts off the music once more, and picks up the call. "Hey, Jess."

"Sam, hey," comes her bright, beautiful voice. "I'm not disturbing, am I?"

"No," he lies. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to wish you all the best," she says, and he can't help but fall in love with her all over again. "We're going to be great together."

"I know, babe," he says, leaning against the wall, trying to rest his foot a little while he's on the phone. "Mostly because you're awesome."

"Don't be silly," she says, and he can hear her smile, oh her beautiful, sunny smile. "You're amazing, too. We're going to love dancing for everyone. And afterwards, you're taking me to dinner!"

"I'll take you anywhere you ask."

"And I'll go anywhere you take me," she laughs. "Except maybe not Taco Bell," she adds teasingly. "All right, baby, I gotta go now, gotta get back to practising. You go kick ass, all right?"

"Gotcha," he says. "Love you, Jess."

"Love you too, Sam."

He's smiling as he hangs up and puts his phone aside. She never fails to make him feel better about _everything_. And the period of rest has done him good too—his foot feels much better.

Still smiling, he restarts the song for the second time, readying himself to dance, and switching on the music so he can immerse himself in it all.

Sam's just started again when the door opens and Jake enters, completely breaking Sam's tempo. "Oh, shit, sorry," he says, wide-eyed with apology. "My bad."

"It's okay." Sam does his best not to sound irritable. "Good you're here. We can practice with the music."

Jake nods. "Gotcha. Gimme a moment, let me get into it."

Sam waits for his understudy to warm up, trying very hard to resist the urge to tap his foot impatiently against the wooden floor. Finally Jake straightens and takes his place next to Sam, giving him a thumbs up. "Let's get started, then."

Sam resists the urge to point out that he got started ages before Jake did, and instead silently turns on the music for the third time, praying to whomever's listening that he's not interrupted this time. He thinks he might actually strangle the culprit if that happens. But then the music starts, and he's lost in it again.

They dance on. Sam notices Jake glancing towards his foot every now and then, but pays no mind. Let Jake do and think what he wants. Sam's not going to let something as inconsequential as a sprain hold him back.

**~o~**

Jake leaves around ten; Sam finally stops dancing at half past midnight, when he cannot bring himself to move any longer. Shutting off the music and sitting down with his back against the wall, he calls Dean to come pick him up.

He feels so _tired_. His ankle is swollen, throbbing painfully with each beat of his heart, and he looks at it in dismay. Somehow he doesn't think this is something that will go away with a bit of icing and rest.

Whatever. It's okay. He can handle it. He's handled much worse.

Not while he was performing, though.

It's okay.

He can handle it.

Perfection, he reminds himself. He needs to be perfect, and to do that, he needs to not let anything get in his way. Not even himself.

_Especially_ not himself.

**~o~**

He's so tired he can think of nothing but his soft bed and warm comforter, but unfortunately they're out of bread, eggs and some other necessities, so Dean stops at a supermarket on their way home. Sam refuses point-blank to go inside. He's not sure his ankle could take it, honestly, but he's not about to tell Dean that, so he just cites exhaustion.

"Fine," Dean says. "Just sit in the driver's seat till I'm back, then."

The short walk from the passenger's side to the driver's is _awful_ , just plain fucking _awful_ , but Sam braves through it, trying his best not to limp. Last thing he needs is Dean finding out about his ankle. He settles himself in the driver's seat and tries not to go to sleep, turning on the radio to keep himself more or less awake.

_Hey Jude_ , sings the lady who's apparently getting quite popular on the radio for her cover of the song. _Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…_

He's quite proud of himself for managing to stay awake until Dean returns ten minutes later. Dean dumps the bags of grocery into the backseat and gets into the passenger's side. "Drive," he tells Sam.

"Aren't you gonna—?" Sam gestures towards the steering wheel.

"Well, you're already in the driver's side, and we're five minutes away from home," Dean points out.

Sam shrugs. "Okay." He puts the car into gear.

He doesn't want to do this, he really doesn't. He tired, his foot hurts, and all he wants is to sleep. But he knows that saying any of this out loud will be his own death sentence. Dean won't let him dance. He doesn't blame Dean for his worry, but sometimes he thinks Dean just doesn't get it.

Next to him, Dean's singing along quietly to Metallica on the radio, tapping his fingers against his denim-clad knee. He looks just as tired as Sam feels, and all of a sudden Sam feels a rush of sympathy and affection for his brother. It can't be easy on him, working all those long hours and getting yelled at by idiot clients, just so he can earn enough money to support the two of them while Sam waits to make it big.

It just strengthens Sam's resolve to ace this, to kick it in the ass. It's about damn time he supports himself, or at least earns enough to help Dean out. For now, he's nothing but a liability, finance-wise, but it's only a matter of time. Only a couple more days. He can do his. He'll power through this on ten broken bones if he has to (but of course he hopes it doesn't come to that).

There's an SUV in front of them, and Sam focuses on its bright red taillights to distract himself from the pain.. His ankle feels heavy and swollen now, and Sam's almost afraid to look at it when he gets home. He just hopes he can find a way to hide it from Dean until it gets better—

Something's wrong. The SUV's hazard lights are flashing; it's slowed down, and Dean is shouting Sam's name. Sam tries to move his foot from the accelerator to the brake, but it won't obey, it won't listen to him, _what the fuck is wrong with his foot_ —

Dean lunges to put himself between Sam and the impact, but doesn't get there fast enough, and Sam slams into the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of him. There's blood and shouting and _painpainpainpainpainpain_ and… blackness.

**~o~**

Far, far away in another world, an angel looks for Sam and Dean, searching for them with everything he has, while another, more powerful angel laughs at what has just been dropped into his lap.


	2. Chapter 2

There are lights. And people. Applause. They're happy to be here.

Sam loves it all, the attention, the adoration, the awe. Watching the curtain rise from backstage. Millions of faces. And Dean, always in the front row, always the most supportive.

He has always been there for Sam. For everything Sam does. He's stood up for him more than once; been the big brother most people can only dream of. Sam feels like he owes his brother a million things even if Dean will refuse, or will say that this is all just his job. But the fact that Dean's here, it means everything. Because even now, when Sam needs him the most, he's here. Right where Sam can see him.

_"_ _Sam?"_

Sam rushes to the green room and takes a deep breath in front of the mirror. Wayward strands of hair are already coming out of his ponytail, framing the sides of his face, and he checks his hair tie to ensure that the rest is properly 's starting. His part. It's starting. And. And, oh. He can do this. He is going to nail this. He knows he's good at what he does, with the way his cracking, popping joints remind him of all his practice and work each morning, and he knows he's going to be appreciated.

He takes a final few seconds in the room to catch his breath and returns backstage, ready to do his part. The lights go off. He takes his position.

The music begins amidst pin drop silence. He starts to dance, stretching his arms out as Jess enters the stage with a _chassé_ and then a _pas de chat_ , graceful as always, fluid and just perfect when she pirouettes. Sam moves ahead with a _grand jeté_ and he just vaguely hears the gasp from the audience before he holds Jess's soft hands in his. They coordinate for another _grand jeté_ and Sam now knows, as he dances a few perfect _temps de poisson_ that the audience is enraptured by both of them and the story they're telling.

He takes Jess's hands again and they dance together.

They're a dance of two souls that Sam buries himself in. It's blissful to be in that realm; that world where his mind is disconnected to his body in favor of muscle memory, every sense inside of him savoring what he loves the most. He spins, pirouettes, feet carrying him as he glides and leaps. The Nutcracker Prince and Masha the Princess. Dancing to Tchaikovsky's best, in the grand melody made from violins and cellos and flutes and people and people and people.

_"_ _Sammy."_

Jess has her hands in his again. He lifts her in a sweep, left leg sliding back as he arches, her arms around his neck and her gaze bleeding into his as a strand of her blond hair escapes her perfect bun. She looks utterly _gorgeous_.

_"_ _Sam."_

Jess opens her mouth, as if to call him. She's crying. Sam doesn't know why, but she's in his arms, crying like he has never seen her do before.

_"_ _I need an ambulance here! My brother is hurt!"_

Jess's tear drops fall on Sam's forehead, sticky and hot.

His heart is breaking for her and he wants to comfort her, hold her. Ask her to marry him. She's perfect. So beautiful, amazing, intelligent. She always makes him happy. He can talk to her for hours and hours and always and forever for eternity. He loves her so much. So much—

_"_ _SAM!"_

Sirens. It's _hot_.

He looks up as more of Jess's tears fall on his forehead but then his mouth opens in a scream, the image, the horror of what he's seeing before him, shattering him for an eternity.

"Jess!" he calls out, arms flailing towards her. _"Jess!"_

She's on the ceiling, dripping blood from her stomach, burning.

She's dead.

**~o~**

Cas has been looking for Sam and Dean for days and days now.

Bobby has no idea where they are. They're not answering their phones and the last place Bobby knew they were in, their motel room is empty. Right now, Bobby is trying to track the Impala while Cas traces whatever evidence they can find of Sam and Dean's vanishing.

He is not sure who's behind this. Why would the angels take Dean with them, and likewise, why would the demons take Sam? It doesn't make sense that they are gone together—unless, of course, it is the work of hunters again. Humans were unpredictable. However, even with the unpredictability, humans always leave behind evidence and if this was the work of a human being, Cas would know by now.

No, it is most definitely a supernatural entity.

Cas had tried looking into the Winchesters' last case.. They'd been hunting a vampire, and no vampire that Cas has heard of has the extraordinary powers to make people disappear. It doesn't add up. They were supposed to turn up by now.

They are in danger.

Cas clenches his fist and gets up from the bench he's been sitting on. Sunlight filters in from the spaces between the leaves and Cas extends his hand to feel it, the golden light on his skin, the delicate heat.

He shuts his eyes. He can feel tendrils of loneliness creep into him, their absence affecting his transformation to becoming human, and he doesn't like it. He needs to find Sam and Dean as soon as he can. And he will.

**~o~**

Sam looks up from his jello as Dean walks into the hospital room with a cup of coffee in his hand. His face is drawn and tired, but then he glances at Sam and raises the Styrofoam cup in his hand with a little bow of his head and Sam manages a smile as his brother seats himself on the chair next to his bed.

Sam's been in the hospital for a week now after numerous surgeries on his broken legs and his left shoulder. Although right now he's finally awake enough to talk to Dean. And no one's happier about that, than Dean himself. The pain from all the injuries on his upper body is excruciating, though (waist down is an entirely different story and Sam doesn't want to think about that), and he's usually drugged on painkillers but sometimes he's awake enough, like right now.

"The kids from your show came around," Dean says without preamble as he sips from his coffee and leans forward to talk to Sam. "They got you a little something." He reaches for his coat and pulls out a small bunch of daisies, and Sam smiles.

"Thanks."

"I'll tell them that," says Dean. "And, uh… Jake wanted to visit but you were alone and asleep so…"

"Oh. Is he performing instead of me?"

"No." Dean clears his throat. "They canceled it. They ain't performing it at all. Solidarity to you um…" Dean gestures vaguely at Sam.

"That's weird, though. Did you talk to anyone?"

Dean just shakes his head 'no' at the question and Sam falls quiet, thinking about how a perfect opportunity just got away from not only his, but also Jake's hands. Why would they cancel the whole show? It doesn't make sense.

"You should have let Jake in," Sam tells his brother. "You know you are being stupid about him."

"I don't trust him, Sammy," says Dean. "I told you."

"And what could he possibly do to make me worse?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "But I wanna be around when you're vulnerable and he's visiting you, okay?"

"Fine." Sam lets out a sigh. Sam's not sure why Jake's name and presence give him an uncomfortable tingle in his gut, but Dean seems to feel the same. It's strange because Sam is _sure_ that Jake's a good guy, and he never even tried to sabotage Sam. Dean never trusted him anyway. Either way, Sam's mind diverts to something else.

"Jess?" he asks hopefully.

Dean looks away. "Sammy…"

"Did she call?" Sam's heart is already sinking because he knows the answer. She has every right to move on, he knows, she has a vast life ahead, better things to do than come see her (now presumably) ex-boyfriend lying in a hospital bed, but Sam longs to hear her voice again. He remembers the nightmare he had right after his accident—that she was burning on a ceiling, dead—and every time he thinks of it, he feels his heart rate elevate. It had seemed too real; the heat and the stink of blood too visceral. He tried asking the doctors about it but they don't seem to be very concerned. They just thought it was his mind making stuff up in between states of consciousness.

Dean decides not to reply to Sam's question as he puts the daisies on the bedside cabinet, awkward silence following the action. Sam turns back to his jello and digs into it, waiting for the inevitable question from his brother today, and—

"Sam." There it is.

"Yeah?"

"How're you feeling?"

"Aces."

Sam feels a corner of his mouth snap into a half-smile and is instantly guilty about being an asshole. This is not Dean's fault. Hell, it's not anyone's fault. It was an accident. A _horrible_ accident.

_Sirens, Dean, pain, blood, can't move cantmovecantmovecantmove_

"Sam."

_The doctor stands with a diagram of the human spine. The vertebral column is numbered and Sam knows them from school. Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, sacral—_

_"_ _This is where you have been injured, Mr. Winchester."_

_He blinks. Follows the doctor's finger. 'L1', it says on the diagram. He sees the nerves branching out, follows their routes, and he knows what the doctor is about to say. He's been expecting it. He's not a fool. He knew the moment he couldn't feel his legs that this would happen. That his life had just taken a turn for the worse._

_He clears his throat. "So… uh, I can't walk again." He tries to be cool about it, a little more laid back, but his voice is tight and bitter. He sees it in the doctor's eyes._

_"_ _Seeing your injury is quite profound, we will try to help you, but at this moment I'm afraid I need to say…"_

"Sam."

The room comes back to focus, spins a little. Sam shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to say it, didn't want to answer that question. But it's not Dean's fault and Dean hurts just as much at Sam being hurt so he should talk.

And when he does, he just states the obvious; what Dean already knows, and what both of them can't get themselves to believe. They shouldn't be in this situation. They shouldn't. But—

"I can't walk, Dean. I'm paralyzed. Waist down. Do you even know what that means?"

It comes out in the smallest voice Sam's ever spoken in, a resigned statement, and Dean stops staring at the sun rays falling in through the singular window in Sam's room. He blinks. "Yeah."

"Yeah. So no, I'm not okay." He barely notices the crack in his voice, the sting at the back of his eyes. "I can't—what I loved, the ballet, my classes, the kids. The-the…"

_the fact that this is the only thing I want to do, but can't_

He realizes he broke something by saying that because he never let himself think of it after he'd woken up. Didn't let himself fear the consequences when the doctor showed him the diagram. It hadn't seemed to matter because he did not want it to. But, it does. This is not temporary. Not fixable. It's shattered.

Dean sets his coffee down, gets to his feet and for a moment, Sam wonders how Dean'd look in a leather jacket. He can almost see his brother sporting one, maybe carrying a gun too, and he blinks, because Dean doesn't have a leather jacket.

He stops thinking further when he feels Dean's hand on his shoulder. He doesn't lean into Dean, but Dean pulls him into a hug anyway, arms around Sam, tucking Sam's face against his stomach, and if a tear drops down Sam's cheek while that happens, they don't talk about it. They just stay that way, grieving the loss of what was normal for them.

 

**~o~**

"I tried all my hunter contacts. None of them know where those idjits are at."

Cas barely registers Bobby's half-angry, half-worried voice as he paces the study, hands behind his back. It's times like these, situations like these that he wishes he still had access to Heaven but he doesn't, and he is going to have to rely on his depleting powers to find Sam and Dean. He feels an odd sense of loss that they're somewhere that he cannot reach them; he's quite used to the camaraderie and friendship that's developed between them. It makes things seem easier, even though Cas technically knows that it's not so.

He finally seats himself on a chair before Bobby and watches him unscrew a bottle of whiskey.

"Drink," Bobby tells him as he sets a glass before Cas. "Bottoms up."

"I am not sure how alcohol will solve our problem right now."

Bobby scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Just drink, ya idjit, stop thinkin' about it."

Cas narrows his eyes before accepting the glass. The stench of the spirit is overpowering, and his vessel feels warm as he downs the cool liquid. However, it has absolutely no other effect on him.

He clears his throat. "I cannot understand what supernatural entity did this to Sam and Dean."

Bobby sighs. "I think we both know that hunters ain't out of question yet."

"Yes," Cas says as he sets his glass on the table, "but no human is that perfect."

"Now you're just underestimating my species."

"No, I would know, I would find something."

"A hunter could have cast a spell on them," Bobby suggests, "did you think of that? Humans using supernatural sources can be pretty good."

He pushes back his chair, a sense of urgency coursing inside him as he stands up. "I did not consider that at all. I need to—"

He is interrupted by the sound of something heavy slamming on the hardwood table before him, and blinks to see Bobby push a book towards him. "Read," he says. "Once you get some direction you can talk about rescuing 'em from Timbuktu. But for that ya need to locate Timbuktu."

Cas finds himself agreeing with Bobby as he sits down again to read, and he prays to his Father to be able to reach Sam and Dean again, hating himself for every moment of the silent prayer.

**~o~**

They have to make many changes around the apartment to accommodate Sam and his wheelchair. Sam truly realizes just how different everything in his life is about to be. It's not just that his bodily autonomy is screwed up or that he can't move or pee or poop by himself, it's the other things too. The little things that are much, much bigger than they seemed at first.

Many things and places were never meant for the disabled. The world never stops to consider him and people like him. He is special now, in the eyes of people—someone to feel sorry for, or to target with vaguely ableist remarks that are so normal to them, they don't even think it's wrong.

And the whispering voices that talk about him: _"He had a career but he doesn't anymore."_

(He had a _life_ but he doesn't anymore).

"Not true," Dean tells Sam. "You have a fucking life, Sammy. Don't talk that crap, man."

Sam tries to believe him.

Dean's got a ramp at the doorway because there is a step down from it into the hallway. He's got a shower chair, and rails to hold on to on either side of the toilet (not that Sam will be sitting on the seat anymore, thanks to that glorious thing they call a catheter which doesn't look like it's going away soon, but Sam thinks Dean's done that in anticipation of a recovery). The food items in the kitchen are now at Sam's height (Sam used to be tall, now he's just half of who he was and no part of who he wanted to be).

"You're still my same old ugly little brother," Dean scoffs at him. "I mean, sure, you can't feel some parts of you but you are you." And, okay, Dean can be an asshole sometimes, but Sam pretends that didn't just make him feel warm.

Dean moves into the spare room to give Sam more space in his, and, to be honest, Sam knows they've had the spare room since forever but isn't sure why they were sharing the other one, all cramped in those twin beds that were too uncomfortable.

"You know. Cas," Dean whispers absently as he moves his stuff into the guest room. "We needed a room for him but I don't know if he's coming."

Sam takes a moment to register that, and hears a whoosh of wings. He blinks. "Who?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"You said Cas." The name is painfully familiar to Sam, and Dean's hand goes to rub at his left shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're saying, Sam," Dean tells him finally. "What the hell is a Cas?"

Sam decides to leave it there and wheels himself out, watching Dean move the rest of his stuff in.

The neighbors are soft and sympathetic, just like the rest of the world. They talk in That Voice, which Sam hates so much, he could pull their stupid little larynxes out and throw them away. They help more than they need to, and Sam finds himself gritting his teeth because he's _not_ a cripple. He snaps at them (oh, fuck them, they think they're doing God's work by being _nice_ to Sam but fuck them, fuck them so much).

"Sammy—" Dean tries to explain on one such occasion, but Sam rolls his eyes and wheels away to his room. He can do that now, wheel into his room, but God, that was hell for a while because his shoulder injury meant he couldn't move one arm much. He tore his rotator cuff, apparently. How lovely. And well, he's still learning how to move from one place to another, like from the wheelchair to the bed, to the couch and so on, so he doesn't think he's going to be fully uncomfortable until he can do all that without Dean half-lifting him.

He'll be happiest when he can pee without having to shove a tube into his dick.

Later that day, Dean comes over with meatloaf that one of the neighbors apparently sent in. Sam is silent as Dean sits next to him on the bed and they both start to eat, Sam sighing a little at the taste of the meatloaf as he shuts his eyes to savour it. Most of him that hasn't lost sensation is still stiff and painful from injuries, but he can thankfully do the little things, like feeding himself.

"Sam," Dean begins again. Today has been a passable day, but Sam's stomach clenches because _don't ruin it, Dean._

He swallows. "Look—"

"No, I'm sorry." Dean puts his fork down and stares ahead at the wall. "I know things changed too soon for you, and they didn't change for the best."

"Ya think?" Sam scoffs, diverting his eyes to the meatloaf.

"I…" Sam hears Dean set his plate on the bed and feels him shift awkwardly. Dean lets out a breath. "This doesn't matter, I know—it shouldn't, but these things, they changed for me too."

Sam shuts his eyes, hands trembling a little. "This isn't about you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know…"

Sam takes another bite of the meatloaf and rolls it around in his mouth. It makes him think of a homely bar. Cigarette smoke, tough crowds, cold beer, but _home_. He doesn't know why. It is oddly nostalgic.

"This meatloaf is really good," Sam finds himself whispering. "Did you make it?"

"No," Dean replies. "Ellen got back from visiting Jo last night. She wanted to see you but I told her…" Dean trails away, and Sam can feel him struggle to maneuver himself around _that_ topic. Dean, however, clears his throat and manages to completely avoid it. "She sent the meatloaf instead. You love her meatloaf, right?"

Sam frowns, turning to his brother, who has picked his plate back up, looking appropriately guilty for that selfish little conversation about how things had changed for Dean (really, Dean, just because you had to fit a damn ramp and do some carpentry? You can't seriously mean that).

He can't remember who Dean is talking about, though. There are some people from their childhood, friends of their parents, who contact them sometimes. Dean keeps track of them all and Sam knows the ones who talk to them regularly, but the others slip his mind on occasion. He assumes Ellen belongs to the second kind.

He purses his lips, squinting. "Which one is Ellen?"

"What do you mean, _which one_?" Dean asks him absently. "How many Ellens do we know?"

"I don't know any, so you're gonna have to enlighten me."

"You're kidding, right?" Dean raises an eyebrow, just as the face of a woman flashes in Sam's head—middle aged, dark haired and tough, cleaning a bar. Oh. _Ellen_. Ellen Harvelle. No wonder the meatloaf reminds him of a homely bar. She owns that very bar he considers his second home.

Sam shakes his head and glances at his bedside table where his medicines are carefully aligned with a jug of water—all Dean's work, because his brother is just weird like that. Sam himself likes to be orderly but Dean … there is no telling whether Dean will avoid hygiene altogether or be an asshole about everything being orderly and neat. It's either one or the other and there is no in-between.

Dean's gaze follows Sam's, to the meds. He sighs. "You're dosed up on the good kind of Tylenol, aren't you?"

Sam scoffs. "I took them a while ago."

"Yeah, now I'm not surprised you don't remember Ellen," says Dean.

"I do remember her."

"Whatever, Sasquatch, eat up and get to bed. You're high." The statement makes Sam think of Dean leading him to bed and Sam's blabbering, drunk as hell…

"Sammy?"

Sam snaps out of his reverie, only to see Dean staring at him, confused and scared. "Sam, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm just… I guess I'm tired."

Dean doesn't reply but he waits patiently for Sam to finish and takes their plates away. Then he wheels Sam to the bathroom (he still helps sometimes when Sam's had his meds but _dammit_ , Sam's independent), waits outside for him to finish his business and after a while, Sam's sitting on his bed, Dean lifting his legs up for him as he droops, too tired, and Jess's voice whispering in his ear. He misses her. He misses her so much.

He barely registers as Dean pushes him gently, getting him to lie down, and then the light blanket on him as he drifts away. The last thing he knows before he enters his own realm between dream and reality is Dean's hand on his forehead.

"Thanks," he whispers with all the energy he can gather and he knows that he has this, and much more, to thank Dean for. He owes Dean everything. He owes Dean the entire fucking world. But Dean disappears then, and there is blackness everywhere, everywhere, until he finally sees Jess before him.

 _"_ _Sam,"_ she whispers to him, happy, sad, hurt, all at once. She's in her negligee; the one she wore the first time that they made love. It was after their fifth date. She'd taken him to her apartment after and he still remembers her warm body underneath his, her hips moving to match his rhythm, the crescent-shaped dents on the skin of his back, the bruises on her neck, her harsh gasps and her soft, wet lips.

He raises his arms to hold her again, but she disappears.

_"_ _Sam."_

He doesn't know where she is, but her voice is different this time. It's a hoarse whisper, calling out his name again and again until it is not Jess's voice in his ears anymore. Until it's a man. A man whom Sam doesn't know but feels like he vaguely recognizes.

 _"_ _Come to me,"_ the man says. _"I will take your pain away. I will make it better for you."_

Sam reaches to the blackness before him, trying to hide himself, but the man speaks again. _"You don't have to hide from me. I would never hurt you. And you will see me soon, Sam. I promise to take all your pain away._

_"_ _I will give you everything, in exchange for just one small thing."_

Sam takes in a deep breath and speaks for the first time. "And what is that?"

 _"_ _I need you to say_ yes _."_

**~o~**

Cas sits on one of the beds in the motel room and stretches his hand into the air before him, shuddering as he feels something like a static current pass through him. He and Bobby got back here—to the last motel room Sam and Dean were in, after a lot of dead ends and this time, the things around here are different. A lot different.

For starters, they did finally locate the Impala, hidden in the woods nearby and Cas checked there before and can swear in the name of his father that it wasn't there. And now… this.

"What is it?" Bobby asks Cas from his corner. "You told me you didn't find anything here. That change all of a sudden?"

"I did not find anything then," Cas tells him, still pronating and supinating his palm to feel the wave of current before him. "The last time I was here. However, right now, I feel something else."

"What changed?" Bobby crosses his arms, sounding equal parts suspicious and cautious.

"The air around here," says Cas. He withdraws his hand and squints at the rip. He can see it. A small wave, a seven-colored spectrum. It's right there. He should have looked more carefully before.

"What is it about the air?"

"It's the aura," says Cas. "I may be wrong, but…" He breaks away, and looks at the peeling, yellow wallpaper before him as he gathers himself to break the news to Bobby. "I think they have been pulled into an alternate reality."

"Okay." Bobby lets the silence remain for a whole minute before continuing and Cas finally faces him to see that he hasn't moved at all. "How did you find out about that reality just now? What went wrong—or right?"

Cas extends his hand into the 'little rainbow rip' as Dean would call it, feeling the short, sharp burst of current, smiling this time. "One of them has managed to find loopholes in that reality."

Bobby scoffs. "How much do ya wanna bet that it's Sam?"

Cas grips onto the bedcovers and shrugs. "I do not have money but if I did, I would lay a bet on Sam as well."

"And what are you going to do now?"

Cas stares at the _little rainbow rip_ , the loophole that Sam has created, and braces himself. "I am going to go into their reality and bring them back."

"You need help for that?"

"No, I can do it alone." He looks Bobby squarely in the eye. "I will bring them back by myself, whole and unharmed. I promise."

Bobby just wheels himself to the dusty table to retrieve the remote for the TV. "I deserve a damn pat on the back for saying this after everything your family pulled on us and is pulling on us right now, but I trust you to get those idjits back from the land of whoever they pissed off this time. Go get them. I'm going to be waiting for you to return in one piece."

**~o~**

Rehab is exhaustive as always, and all Sam feels, like every other time, it brings with it the crushing realization for him that he is never going to be able to walk again. (They say he will, but he knows he won't). His sessions are for his shoulder injury from the accident and some damage and stretching of the muscle tendons on his arms, that give him pain, and passive exercises for his legs, but none of it makes him feel better about anything.

He would honestly take all that pain with no complaints at all. If he could just walk. One more time.

Jess still hasn't called and the strange man still talks to Sam in his dreams. He tried to tell Dean about it but Dean scoffed, saying it was probably the meds. And Sam hasn't had the courage to talk about it with his doctor so he holds it in, hoping Dean is right, even if there is something prickling inside, telling him that it's probably worse.

He holds himself together, though. And he follows all the exercises that he is advised by his physiotherapist, Dr. Alva, cooperatively taking treatment for his problems. He's quiet the whole time, just doing as he's been told. It's a couple of months since his injury now and he is getting better, he can see that, but he can't get rid of the thoughts anyway. He is interrupted by Dr. Alva mid-reverie.

"Can I talk to you, Sam?" she asks him in a kind voice, but it is not that _Horrible Sympathetic Voice_ that so many people use for him and he is grateful.

He nods. "Sure."

"In my office," she says, glancing at Dean, who's patiently perched on one of the plastic chairs.

"All right," Sam tells her, nodding at Dean as he wheels after her into her office.

It's a simple little room with almost no personal touches, except for a couple of pictures of a black pug—one of the pictures has the physiotherapist in it hugging the dog. Sam smiles at them and wishes Dean'd let _him_ keep a dog at home. But in all honesty, since Sam can't walk now, it would only be more responsibilities for Dean, so he understands.

"That is Vinnie," the doctor nods at the photos. "Do you like dogs?"

"I love them," Sam tells her. "We had one when my brother and I were kids. His name was Bones."

"Pug?"

"No, a golden." Sam thinks of the big, beautiful bounding dog eating pizza crusts off his hand, and falls quiet. Something makes his heart race at the mere memory. Like he disappointed someone. Like he hurt Dean. Which is ridiculous because Dean loved that dog, too. They buried him at Flagstaff. He lived a good, old life.

"Sam?"

He looks up at the doctor and blinks, turning his gaze to the bookshelf behind her. "Sorry. You wanted to talk to me?"

"I did." She is silent until Sam's looking at her again, into her eyes. "How are you doing?" she asks him.

"I'm okay. Why do you ask?"

"It is important."

"Yeah, but I've got a million people asking me that every day, and my brother alone asking me a hundred times a week at least."

"Yes, because we're concerned."

Sam shakes his head at her and smiles, biting his lip. "That is not it. You're doing it as a _duty_. The others are doing it to sound courteous."

"And Dean?"

"He cares."

"You think he's the only one?"

Sam nods, and traces a finger over a wood of her table. "Yeah. I mean—it's not like we have many friends. My girlfriend just… left for some reason, and we're stuck like this…"

Alva lets out a sigh. "That's not true, Sam."

"What isn't?"

"That no one apart from Dean cares."

"No, it is."

She shakes her head. "You have to believe me when I say it isn't."

Sam folds his arms, holding them around his middle as he leans over slightly. Alva's AC starts hissing a little but he ignores the sound. "Is that why you called me here? To say you care too? Or that Dean's not the only one who does?"

"Mostly the second thing."

"Okay," says Sam, rocking back and forth a little, still listening to the hissing of the AC. He needs to get out of here. He doesn't want to talk about any of this and staying here feels suffocating. He just wants to get out.

Alva bends over, hair falling into her eyes before she shakes it back. "You already know that, don't you?"

"What?"

"That Dean's not the only one to care?"

He shrugs. "Look, no offense, but if that's all you wanted to say, can I leave?"

"Leave? Why?"

"I know you want to say people are here for me and that you're concerned… or whatever…"

"You never asked why, though."

Sam frowns at her. This is getting weirder and weirder. He grips at his wheels, ready to leave. "All right, I'll see myself out, then."

"No, Sam," she says, "you can't go yet. You haven't answered me."

There is something about the way she says it—something sinister about the words and Sam gets his hands off the wheels, looking back into her eyes and pure terror takes him over when he does that.

Her face melts off. It contorts like wax or gel or putty, distorting and repositioning, changing, metamorphosing before Sam's own eyes and when he blinks he is looking at a man, a blonde man on the chair previously owned by Dr. Alva and every cell in him is frozen, every word he wants to say stuck to his throat.

The man smiles. "So have you thought about it?"

Sam's mouth moves but nothing comes out and the man before him just shakes his head. "Come on, Sam. You have had enough time to be prepared. Don't tell me you don't know who I am."

It hits him then, like a freight train. As to why the voice scares him so much. He remembers the darkness, sleep, that small kingdom that is not dream or wakefulness and the voice… the same voice beckoning to him each day. The silky, dangerous voice calling out to him.

_"_ _Sam."_

A motel room. He stands before a man—the same man, but Sam's eyes are filling with tears. He can feel the helplessness and anger and he knows he doesn't want this. He is Lucifer's true vessel. Lucifer needs his consent to possess him. To destroy the universe. And Sam only prayed to God and only wanted to help people. He never wanted to destroy. He never wanted to be the Devil. But he can't escape Lucifer. Lucifer, who can't find him but can enter his dreams; Lucifer using him through Jess image…

And Jess.

Jess isn't… is Jess dead? For real?

Sam feels another tear slide down his cheek as he looks around the physiotherapist's office and at Lucifer, and he doesn't know how he knows, but he _knows_ he can't say yes.

_He can't say yes._

"You know the deal," Lucifer coaxes him, folding his arms as he sits back on the doctor's chair. "You let me in, and you can use those legs again."

Sam swallows. "What did you do to the real Dr. Alva?"

"In the grand scheme of everything I'm about to do? Doesn't matter."

"Did you kill her?"

"I did."

"And Jess? What did you do to Jess?"

"Just give me a yes or no, Sam." Sam's blood curdles as he thinks of this _person_ —Lucifer— taking Jess, and Dr. Alva, and whoever else he's killed or tortured, and he wishes this were a dream, but he's known for the last few days that something was horribly off. He just never expected it to be… this.

Sam licks his dry lips. "You are _Lucifer_."

"Yes I am. And you are Sam Winchester and you are going to answer me in a yes or a no."

Sam grits his teeth and takes in a deep breath. _"No."_

The word is barely out of Sam's mouth when he hears the loud shattering of glass. There is a hand on his shoulder and he only just catches a glimpse of strange blue eyes before everything around him dissolves in a flurry of colors and voices.


	3. Chapter 3

One moment he feels like he's suffocating, like someone is squeezing every single part of his body through a tiny pipe. His feet can't find ground and he thinks his skull is going to shatter with the amount of pressure on it. It's excruciating, the worst thing he's ever experienced. He's dying. He knows. He's dying, dying, dying…

There is a sharp jolt along his spine as his wheelchair crashes onto a solid surface. His chair spins and unable to maintain balance, it topples over as he crashes onto his side, sprawled on what feels like concrete.

He gasps for air, vaguely hearing Dean by his side, cursing and sputtering. His vision tunnels, black spots gathering until he can catch his breath, and he has no idea where they are. He looks around and tries not to get dizzy. It looks like they're in a vaguely familiar alleyway. He can hear the hustle and bustle of people chatting away their day and occasional honks from impatient drivers.

They aren't far from the main road, which makes this the alleyway behind their home. He remembers now. He used to come here with friends, back when he was in school.

And in front of him, standing over him and Dean, a man. He's tall, well-built, and he's wearing a tan trench coat, a curious expression dotting his face.

Sam gathers his bearings, shaky and weak, but instinctively curling away from the man in front of him. Dean gets to his feet and Sam doesn't miss how Dean steps in front of him. It's familiar, and if Sam's being honest with himself, he expected it. But he can't understand why. Dean's never done that before, not unless he counted that one time in eighth grade where Sam was bullied mercilessly for choosing dance as an extracurricular. Dean had not been happy and seeing his brother stand up to them had given Sam the strength to start standing up for himself. But they've never been in situations to warrant this.

Oh well, big brothers.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean snarls as he rights Sam's wheelchair and helps him into it. Sam grits his teeth through the various aches and pains make themselves known when he settles down.

The man before them sighs, eyes sad, and Sam peers around Dean to get a good look at him. He frowns. He recognises that trench coat, he thinks. Maybe this man had wings. And that's a weird thought in the first place.

But… _Lucifer_.

No, nothing is weird.

But this man. Sam knows him. Doesn't he?

"Castiel?" he asks, squinting into the sunlight at the man's face. He's surprised the next moment. That was not what he'd meant to say at all.

The man seems to not have expected it either as his brows furrow in confusion. "Do you remember me?"

"I don't know?"

Seeing his brother's waist twist, Sam looks up to see Dean staring at him. "How…?"

Sam shrugs. _I don't know._

"Please tell me there's a reasonable explanation for this." Dean turns back to Castiel. "You," he nods, "start talking. What the hell did you just do to us?"

Castiel ignores Dean. "This isn't the safest place to talk," he says, instead. "We could be attacked. Do you have anywhere more private?"

"Oh hell, no! You will answer—"

Sam interrupts Dean's threat. "Yeah, we can get out of the alley that way," he points behind him, "our place is like five minutes away."

"Are you kidding me, Sam?! First, we get teleported, _fucking_ teleported from the hospital by this complete stranger. We could die any second and you want to invite him up to our place?" Dean argues, chest heaving and glaring daggers at Castiel.

"Look I know it's stupid, but we know him. I don't know how. We know him. Please, just trust me on this," Sam pleads. Some part of him thinks, no, _knows,_ that this Castiel guy has answers.

Dean takes a bit to reply. "All right," he says, at long last. "And you," he nods at Castiel, "any funny business and I'm chasing you out."

Sam isn't sure but he thinks Castiel actually smiles at that.

 

**~o~**

"So, what I saw wasn't just me making things up?" Sam asks.

The last hour had gone by with Castiel telling them that their world wasn't real, that he had spent days looking for them. That their real world involved angels and demons and everything that they thought didn't exist, and not Sam's shoes and tights and the stage and the audience and ballet and Jess and _Jess_ and…

He'd snapped out of his reverie when Dean had tried to interrupt. Sam kept a firm hold on Dean's arm, a silent plea to let Castiel finish.

Sam looks out of the window as Dean tries to figure it all out. He can believe all of this. He knows. His mind was always telling him. He knows about Lucifer. And Jess. It fits. But then…

He watches the little, dingy apartment complex in their neighborhood. Thinks of all the people there, who are all living in this reality, this place, that was always real to everyone, and yet, not. Sam can't imagine not being a dancer. He remembers his childhood, working his ass off to live his dreams. The pirouettes. The splits. The leaps and bounds. The nights he had been up from pain. The nights Dean and Mom had been up with him, his legs on their laps as they tried to help him through the agony. He can remember it, remember them breathing, as real as anything.

Then how could it all not have happened?

And why would he and Dean ever choose to kill things that are not even supposed to exist?

Even as he thinks of these questions, the word 'hunters' and 'supernatural creatures', as Castiel calls them, flow easily through Sam's mind and conscience. He'd completed a lot of Castiel's explanation without realising.

"What did you see?" Castiel asks Sam, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"Well," Sam hesitates, looking at Dean before turning back to Castiel. "Before you came and got us out of there, I was talking to my physical therapist who sort of, morphed? She turned into… I… just knew he was _Lucifer_. I kinda remember that bit."

Castiel isn't surprised. "What else do you remember, Sam?"

"The… I know I was in a motel room and he came to me. He wanted me to say yes. And… and Jess…" he swallows, glancing at Dean, "Jess is dead."

"Yes, I'm sorry," Castiel tells him. He moves to take a chair at the dining table beside Dean, and Dean's alert now, narrowing his eyes.

"Jess what?"

"She died," Sam says, trying to stop his voice from breaking. "It's been a few years. Mom too."

" _Mom_?"

"And…" Sam sees fire, a blast. A young, blonde woman namedJo, and…

That bomb.

"Ellen's gone," he whispers.

"Ellen?"

"She… she—"

"She died recently," Castiel supplies, his voice quiet.

"I just met her," says Dean, incredulous. "Dammit, just _yesterday._ "

"But have you seen Jessica or your mother of late?" Castiel asks them. "I think whatever is doing this to you might have been able to reproduce her illusion because her death was recent…"

"Please, man, give us a moment," Dean whispers to Castiel.

"I'm sorry."

Sam looks up at his brother's distraught face, taking in the pain. When he thinks of Castiel's words, he realises that he or Dean actually have not seen either Mom or Jess…

… for a while now.

He… can't even remember his last date with Jess.

Oh God.

"Sammy." Dean sounds broken, and Sam can't face him right now.

"Dean, I'm sorry, I…" He folds his arms and rests his head on the table, trying to shut his mind down for a bit. He takes a deep breath and looks up at his brother and Castiel, both illuminated by a sun ray as they sit side-by-side, and he sees two soldiers, great friends, fighting together for what is right.

Just like him and Dean.

Castiel, however, is nothing but sympathetic as he turns to Dean, laying a hand on his shoulder. Dean flinches for a moment but he lets it stay.

"I am sorry," says Castiel. "I am aware these revelations are rather harsh."

"Yeah." Dean washes a hand down his face. "It's been a rough day, I guess."

"Sam," Castiel begins, "you have not said yes yet, have you?"

"Yes to what?" Dean asks him. He stares at Castiel for a moment, then back at Sam. "Can you guys actually explain this shit to me, instead of talking in codes?"

Sam sighs. "Yes to possessing me, Dean. He wants me to give up my body to him."

"What, no way on earth—"

Sam holds his hand up to silence Dean, and continues, talking to Castiel, mostly. "There's been other things too, like dreams and…fragments. I don't know if they're memories, but I think they're real. That's how I knew about Lucifer anyway. He's using my injury to try and get me to agree to him. Things just haven't felt the same for the past few weeks."

As he finishes explaining, Dean twists his hand out of Sam's grip, glaring at him.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean asks him, confused and scared, eyes big and wide. "What the fuck are you on?"

"Dean."

He shakes his head. "Fuck no. I have been patient this whole time. I have listened to this guy's bullshit story. Hell, he calls himself an angel. _Angel."_

"But, I _am_ an—"

Dean acts as if Castiel never spoke and continues, the confusion morphine into pure betrayal as the lines around his mouth deepen. "And you know, that's all fine. Angels. Demons. The stinkin' Devil, apparently. But you. You somehow know a lot about it, which in all honesty, is _freaking_ me the fuck out, Sam. Why didn't you ever tell me about these dreams or whatever?"

"Dean—"

"No, Sam. I deserved to know. After all this shit we have been through, I deserved to know." Dean gets to his feet.

"Dean, I didn't know what to do, okay? It's been freaking me the hell out too. And you were just here with me when Castiel told us. I swear I didn't know anything about it! And how the fuck was I supposed to tell you about this? _Oh, Dean, no big deal, but some strange dude whispers to me in my sleep?!_ "

"Don't joke with me, dude," Dean tells him. His eyes flash and he looks just about ready to bolt.

"Okay," Sam replies, placating. He raises his hands, surrendering. "Listen to us now, okay? Castiel is here he's given us the gist of things so far. And Dean, they make sense. So can you stop cursing at both of us and just listen?"

"Look, I'm willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt, okay? I am," Dean says. Sam frowns as he notices an expression he can't read cross Dean's face. However, it's gone before Sam can figure it out. "I just don't understand that if none of this is real, then how come you seem to be remembering and I don't."

Castiel gets up and walks toward Dean, who apprehensively backs away. "There is a way to make you remember, if you allow me."

"How?"

"Sometimes just hearing about the truth isn't enough. It varies for different people. Some people need physical proof of the reality they actually belong to."

Dean whispers something inaudible for Sam, but Castiel seems to understand. Sam sits up, curious. "Do you know what he's talking about, Dean?"

Dean turns around, his face a mixture of uncertainty and confusion. "You aren't the only one going crazy, I guess," Dean says wryly. "Last few days, every time I look in the mirror with my left shoulder facing it, I see a..." Dean trails off, looking uncomfortable.

"A handprint," Castiel answers.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise and he turns around to face the angel and their gazes connect, Cas tilting his head slightly, apparently reading Dean. A glint of silver from Dean's ring catches the sunlight and Sam averts his eyes to that, Frustration wells up inside of Sam. How could Dean blame him for hiding stuff when Dean himself apparently has been hiding something from Sam?

Dean, however, doesn't notice what Sam's feeling. He's still looking at Castiel, perplexed. His mouth opens for a moment, then he clears his throat. "How did you know that? About the handprint?"

"Because that's my handprint."

Sam raises an eyebrow as Cas proceeds to intensify his stare at Dean, like he's looking at Dean's soul. But Dean doesn't seem to be very enthusiastic about it.

"Your handprint," he repeats.

"That is correct. If you will let me, I can—" Cas raises his hand towards Dean's left shoulder, but Dean moves away.

"The _fuck_ —dude, don't touch me! Who asked—?"

"I need you to listen," Castiel tells him, firm, and for the first time, Sam feels power radiate off him. Angel, he thinks. Castiel is an angel. A powerful being.

"Dean, just listen to him," Sam whispers, at long last.

"Sammy—"

"Shut up and do it," Sam snaps. He wheels himself away from the table, to the other side. He would normally pace but he can't exactly do that now so he's just doing whatever he can. God. _Fuck_.

"So, so…" Dean hesitates, "why did you give me a handprint? I get you're an angel and all but there are better ways to leave autographs, dude."

Castiel is unperturbed. "It was branded into your arm when I raised you from perdition."

"Raised me from what, now?" asks Dean. Sam chuckles at the tone of his brother's voice.

Castiel smiles as well. "Would you allow me to touch that shoulder?"

"Would it help?"

Castiel shrugs. "I'm not sure but there is no harm in trying."

Dean seems to be thinking about it as he runs his hand through his hair. And he's reaching to get his shirt off, when Sam has a thought.

"Am I like this in that world too?"

Castiel squints at Sam, perplexed, just as Dean takes off his flannel to expose his undershirt. "I don't understand."

Sam sighs, suddenly wishing he'd never spoken. He fiddles with a loose thread on his jeans, staring at it. "Am I…disabled?" he clarifies. "Am I stuck in a wheelchair in that world too?"

"No," Castiel replies. "You are not bound to a wheelchair."

Sam feels his spirits lift a little. He smiles to himself, bittersweet emotions springing up. He wants his legs back, but he also wants Jess back. And Mom. And Ellen. If things hadn't been so shitty, he'd still be performing. It was a big break for him as the Nutcracker Prince and Jess as Masha the Princess. The pretty stage and the music and just those people who really loved them.

"Sam?" Castiel's voice is gentle, and Sam looks up at him. "May I ask how this happened to you?"

Sam waves it off, shrugging. "Car accident, it's a long story. Not important."

"Can we please get on with this?" grumbles Dean, lifting the short sleeve of his undershirt over his shoulder. "I feel like you wanna strip me naked here."

"I assure you," Castiel replies. "I harbour no such intent. Although when I raised you from perdition—"

"That's enough," Dean's ears grow pink and he stares at the table. "Just get on with it."

"This might sting," the angel says and goes forward to palm Dean's shoulder.

The minute Castiel's hand touches Dean's skin, Dean jumps in his seat with a yell of pain, clutching tightly at his shoulder. "God, _fuck_!" Sweat blossoms over his temples as he grits his teeth and rests his head on the unpolished wood of their table. But then a moment later he relaxes, letting out a sigh.

"Dean?" Sam scoots over to his brother, who still doesn't rise. He carefully pries away Dean's hand and gasps at the mark on his brother's shoulder.

_Hellhounds, blood, oh god so much blood, dead green eyes._

_Hell._

Sam's eyes widen as Dean slowly straightens to get a look at it himself.

"Dean," says Sam, "this was after he—"

"Raised me from hell," Dean finishes, gazing gravely at Sam. "I remember."

He moves his shoulder around, wincing. "Crap, that _hurt_."

"Apologies," Castiel replies, and Sam moves back to let Dean talk to him.

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, it's fine, Cas. It only hurt when you touched me. Doesn't hurt anymore."

"Cas?" There is so much familiarity in that nickname, Sam smiles. "You're calling him Cas, Dean!"

"What?" Dean whines, defensive. "I call him that, don't I?" he adds, looking to Castiel for reassurance.

"Yes, you do."

"You remember all of it, then?" Sam asks his brother.

Dean shakes his head again. "No just bits and pieces. But enough to say that I believe you now. What about you?"

"Same. Bits and pieces." He turns to Cas; there's a horrible doubt niggling at him, and he wants to know the truth even though he's already kind of dreading it. "Cas, can I ask you something?"

"You already did," Cas replies, completely straight-faced.

"No, I mean… why are we in this reality? Why did someone…or something go through so much trouble to create this world for us?"

"Simply put," Cas gestures to Sam's legs, "he was trying to coax you into letting him possess you. But you are an intelligent man. I think you might have already understood that much."

"But that's it? For the yes?"

"If you remember everything about the Apocalypse, then you know that it is of import."

No, Sam doesn't remember _everything_ about the Apocalypse. White light, Dean fighting with him, mental asylum, anger, regret, anger, regret, anger, regret….

 _Come on, Sam,_ whispers a voice in his ear. _You know what I want. You know it quite well._

He looks around the room, but there's ringing in his ears. He can't hear anything but that voice in his ear. He clutches as his chest through his shirt, gulping, struggling to breathe as everything around him tunnels. No. Not again. Not again.

_Sam. You know what to do._

"Stop," he whispers, his hands covering his ears. The ringing gets louder. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain banging away at his skull.

_I can make it all go away._

"No!" Sam screams. He feels hands gripping his arms and twists away from them, feeling his elbow connect with something hard.

_Sam._

"Sam! Sammy! Stop! It's me, goddamn it," Sam opens his eyes, the ringing suddenly gone. He looks around, and his gaze falls on Dean who's pale and concerned. He is also clutching his jaw, and Sam can see a bruise forming there..

He realises he hit his brother. "Sorry, shit. I…don't know what happened. I heard him. I…I heard Lucifer."

"Hey, it's okay. We'll figure it out. We always do," Dean assures him, his hand leaving his jaw to cup the back of Sam's neck. "Right now, I need you to breathe."

Sam doesn't realise he's breathing too fast, until Dean mentions it. The rooms swims some more, Dean's face being the only thing that is clear to his eyes. He closes his eyes, concentrating on his breath. In, out. In, out.

"We can fix this, right?" he asks Cas when he can catch his breath again. He opens his eyes and turns to his gaze to their apparent friend. "We can find a way back?"

Cas seems unsure. "If I was at full power, I could get you both out of here, but I am not. It took all of my strength to get here to find you. However, if we find the thing that did this, there is a chance we can break the spell and get out."

Sam sits up, determined. "Then let's get to work."

**~o~**

"Cas, take a break. It's all right."

This is turning into a highly eventful day. If Sam had still been nursing tiny slivers of doubt about the whole 'this world isn't real' thing, every bit of that doubt flew out the window when Dean did a similar flying of his own.

Sam hates hospitals. After spending a large amount of his time recovering from his injuries and then some more having to come back for physical therapy, Sam's come to despise the stark white walls and the constant smell of disinfectant. But here he is again, in this same damn place with its death and its doctors, for Dean this time.

_God, Dean, you idiot._

He looks at his brother on the hospital bed, worry poking at every inch of him. Sam is sitting on a chair next to the bed, his wheelchair a few feet away. He'd felt embarrassed at having Cas help him onto the chair, but he hated sitting in the wheeled contraption. He wishes he didn't need it. And people tell him, he'll adjust, he can adjust. That it becomes the new normal after a while. But… how?

He can't wait to get back to whatever realm they belong to, if just to regain the feeling in his legs.

Dean, in the meantime, is unmoving, his breathing even, eyes closed with his hands by his sides. Cas is sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite Sam near the foot of Dean's bed, a large mouldy book in his lap.

"Books are evil," Sam mutters under his breath, looking at Cas holding his head, pain lines evident near his eyes. He frowns. "Cas, if I could walk, I'd rip that book out of your hands. Give yourself a break, man."

"If you touched the book, you'd probably fly like Dean did," Cas throws back.

Sam opens his mouth to argue, but closes it immediately. Cas isn't wrong.

After deciding that they were going to find out how to get back to their reality, Sam had suggested going to the library. If he wasn't dancing, he would be spending his time in the library. He knew therewas a section related to myths and lore, and neither Dean nor Cas were opposed to checking it out. They had headed down a couple blocks from their apartment to the library, and upon making their way towards the shelf they were looking for, Sam had started to feel a slight pounding of his temples. He'd ignored it, chalking it up to lack of sleep.

After that, the only thing Sam remembers is the titles on the books not making sense. He felt like he didn't know how to read them. On picking a book out of its shelf, Sam remembers blinding pain shooting through every part of his body, like being burned alive. He'd heard screaming and it had taken him a moment to realise it was his own voice.

He tried to stop Dean from touching the book but he was too late; the minute Dean's fingers made contact with the book, it was as if something invisible had yanked him backwards. He'd crashed into Castiel who got flung into a bookshelf, toppling it over while Dean soared through the air and crashed out through the glass window on the opposite end of the room.

Sam remembers using his remaining strength to wheel himself out towards the exit to see Dean sprawled in the parking lot of the library, motionless, blood forming a slowly growing pool near his head.

_Oh God._

He shudders at the memory, gaze falling back to his brother. The doctors said that it was a nasty fall (they'd told the doctors that Dean had tripped and fallen out the window and onto the pavement outside) but he wasn't in any immediate danger.

"Please wake up," Sam quietly pleads. He sighs, closing the laptop he'd had open. "Hey, Cas. Can you go ask the doctor if we can take him home? He hates hospitals just as much as I do."

Cas nods, setting the book aside gingerly. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks out, swaying slightly.

"I'll get us out of this, Dean, I swear."

**~o~**

"Abas," Sam explains to Dean who's just woken up from a nap. "He's this…demon, according to the lore. Quite an old one too. He's known as the master of trickery and illusion. He is basically in sole control of the world he creates. Now, this is just a guess but I think that's why we couldn't read those lore books without getting hurt. Even Cas can't read them without trouble. But he's an angel so I guess he was better off as compared to us."

Dean palms his head, and Sam can clearly see his brother is in pain. "Okay," Dean finally says. "Well, Mr. Comatose For A Second Time is out doing what then?"

Dean had woken up due to Cas having slammed his door on the way out, after which he had demanded that Sam explain what he had missed in the few minutes he'd decided to get some shut eye after Cas had blacked out. Cas hadn't listened to Sam's heeds of taking breaks in between trying to read the few lore books they'd managed to get out of the library with the angel's help. He'd passed out from the strain of reading them.

"He was excited about something he read in the book after he woke up; said he needed to get some things. Talked about a spell, I didn't really catch much. He kind of left really fast." Sam shrugs, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness of hunching over his laptop at their small side table.

They're sitting back at the apartment now. Sam remembers not having a real home in their actual world and wonders if he'll ever get used to hopping around motels again.

"Huh," Dean mutters. Sam looks up and follows Dean's eyes to the clock.

"What?"

"Technically, I'm supposed to be at work right now."

"Well, do you want to go?" Sam asks, not knowing how to respond. When you find out that your life has been a lie, how do you deal with it? What would be the point of going back to a job you know doesn't exist in reality?

"Not really." Dean smiles. "I mean, I love the cars, but I hate the people."

Sam nods along, eyes now focused on the open web page in front of him. He'd never figured himself to be good at research but somehow, it seems to be ingrained in him. He groans, shutting the laptop, stretching his arms above him. He wheels himself over to the coffee table near the couch, picking up the bottle of water he'd left there. The doctors had let them leave with orders for Dean to rest for the first day or two and take it easy.

Dean keeps staring while Sam drinks the water.

"What?" Sam finally says, setting the bottle down.

"Nothing. I just hope you're right."

"About?"

"Abas. And everything. I mean, how can you be so sure it's him?" Dean asks.

"To be honest, we can't. I can't. But it's the closest thing that fits. And some parts of the lore even suggest he's faithful to Lucifer, and that would make sense considering the situation we are in right now."

Dean nods, looking reassured. "Okay, I trust you. It's worth a try, right?"

"Yeah, worth a try."

The door clicks that moment, and Castiel walks in with a small cloth bag. He sets it on the coffee table, knocking over the water bottle. He pulls out a mortar and pestle, a horn of some sort and—

"Holy shit, is that a finger?!" Dean exclaims, flinching away from the table and clutching his head due to the sudden motion.

Cas nods. "Sorry I left in such a hurry. I found a spell to summon Abas."

Sam blanches, suddenly feeling a sense of dread. "Cas, we agreed to figure out what was going on. Not summon the creature responsible for all this."

"It's the only way," Cas says, putting the finger and horn into the mortar.

"Cas, stop," Dean says, pulling the pestle away from him. "Even if we summon him, what is the plan here? If we summon him here, he has all the more power to play around with us, did you think about that?"

Cas hesitates. "No," he admits. "I didn't. But what other choice do we have? This world was created to get Sam to agree to being Lucifer's vessel. We know that much now. If we don't do anything, he's just going to make this worse for him, try and find ways to mess with him, trick him into say yes."

Sam sees the logic, albeit flawed. "He's right, Dean," he says, resigned. "Well, what's the plan?"

"The book has a sigil that is made out of a paste that requires the items I just brought. It also has an incantation. We draw the sigil, and recite the incantation. We try and persuade him to reverse whatever he did to you two." He holds up the cloth bag. "I have extra ingredients as well and I am keeping them in your room for the time being, Sam."

"Fine." Sam nods.

"Persuade a demon, Cas? Are you crazy?" Dean calls after Cas as he disappears into Sam's room.

Cas comes back and casts a disagreeing glance at Dean's crossed arms. "You and Sam, in the other world, would be more enthusiastic about this ritual. And I am aware that persuading him might not be a possibility. Which is why I will conceal my blade. If things start to get worse, I'll kill him and hopefully it will destroy this reality."

Sam raises his hand, pursing his lips. Castiel looks towards him. "Two questions. One, how are you so sure that the blade can kill him? And two, if it works and this reality is destroyed, will we be destroyed with it?"

Cas frowns. "Well, my blade has killed every demon so far, so while I cannot be sure, I have no other solution in mind. I also cannot be sure about your next query. This reality exists because he created it. So if he ceases to exist, by logic so should this reality. However, you two are linked to the other reality as well, the one where you belong. So, by that, theoretically you two should be safe."

"Theoretically," Dean echoes.

A tense silence fills up the room as the weight of the outcome of their situation dawns upon them. "Okay then, no one seems to have a better idea so, let's get to it. Cas, walk us through," Dean finally says.

He hands back the pestle to Castiel who picks up the horn from the mortar and crushes it with his fist, turning it into powder and letting it fall into the mortar. He then smashes the finger with the pestle into the powder, turning it into a chunky paste.

Sam watches Dean gag and works to keep his own food inside his body.

"Not that I want to know, but where did you get the finger, Cas?" Sam asks, wary.

"I needed the finger of a dead man according to the book. So I went to the first place where you can find a body in any human world."

"Cemetery?" Dean asks, shocked.

Castiel shakes his head. "That would have taken too much time. I went to the morgue of the hospital we were at earlier."

Sam sees Dean gag once more. "Yep," Sam groans. "Didn't need to know. Pretend I never asked, Cas."

"But you did ask."

Sam sighs, not responding, waving at Cas to continue what he was doing. "So, not that it would work, but having a Devil's trap might be a good idea, just in case, you know? And…I can't draw it," Sam gestures to his wheelchair.

Dean nods. "Do we have anything to draw it with, though?"

Sam points towards his bedroom. "There's probably a marker in my dresser somewhere."

Dean heads off towards the bedroom and Sam turns to Castiel as the angel calls his name.

"Sorry, Sam, but the spell asks for a few drops of human blood."

Sam rolls up his sleeve without hesitation. "And you need mine, I get it."

Castiel hands over his angel blade. Sam sets the blade to his forearm and makes a smooth cut, vaguely surprised at how easy and practised the action feels.

Castiel bows his head in thanks and works on mixing the blood into the paste while Sam takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and hastily wraps it around his arm. Dean walks out with the marker just as Castiel finishes mixing the paste.

Dean and Cas work together on moving the couch and coffee table to make space for the Devil's trap. Castiel then moves to the wall in front of the Devil's trap and dips his fingers into the paste. He draws a circle and a cross inside it, touching the borders. Next, in the four quadrants that are now created, he traces intricate little symbols.

Sam watches with mild interest, feeling himself trying to commit the shape to memory, again, like a practised ritual. Maybe he used to do it in their world.

Dean finishes drawing the Devil's trap and stands up just as Castiel sets aside the mortar. He walks over and picks up one of the smaller books they'd brought back and opens it, scrunching his eyese. Sam can see the pain lines forming again.

Dean walks over to stand next to Sam.

"Okay, so I'll start reciting the summoning spell. If you think things are starting to get dangerous, don't worry about me. Get yourselves out of here. I'll come find you again."

"But, Cas—"

Cas cuts Dean off. "This is non-negotiable, Dean. I need to protect the two of you."

Sam sees Dean steel himself, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Fine," they both agree. It goes against everything Sam believes in, but he agrees with Castiel.

Cas places one of his hands on the sigil, the other holding the spell book, and he starts speaking in Latin. Some words Sam vaguely recognises, and the rest completely escapes his head.

The room starts to shake and rumble, cracks forming in the ceiling. Sam's hand immediately latches onto Dean's sleeve. A part of him feels like something's off, something's wrong.

Before he can voice it however, a loud bang resonates around the room. Sam is thrown back and his wheelchair topples over, his head smacking onto the hardwood floor underneath him. Stars dance in his vision and there's a constant ring in his ears. He groans, blinking to clear his vision as he struggles to sit up. His hand rubs the back of his head and he uses the other one to support himself and keep him somewhat upright.

However, what he sees before him makes his heart jump into his throat. The room is a mess, furniture pushed to the walls, papers and parts of books littering the floor, debris everywhere. But worse; Dean and Cas are also nowhere to be seen.

"Guys?!" Sam yells, dragging himself around his wheelchair. Every part of his body aches and he feels like his chest is being bound by a rope.

"Cas? Dean?" he calls out again.

No. Nonono. They can't be gone. This was supposed to work. They were supposed to get back home. This is not happening.

"DEAN!"


	4. Chapter 4

They're gone.

"Cas! Dean!"

He doesn't even know how the fuck he's managed to get into his wheelchair but it takes a long time. He navigates through the mess and, _fuck_ , he can't even do much in the position that he's in. The wheels wobble and stumble over obstacles, threatening to overturn again but Sam doesn't care anymore. He needs to find them. He can't do this alone. They can't be gone.

Just after an explosion, though? That can't be right. They have to be around somewhere.

Or…

If they're dead, oh God, if they're dead…

Sam stops and shuts his eyes. No, he's not going to think of that. They've been gone ten fucking minutes. Why would they be dead already? No, he's going to find them and they're all going to kick Abas's ass and go back home.

That sounds like a great plan.

He moves, one step (turn of his wheels?) at a time, collecting the books that have fallen. Trying to collect the debris. Maybe he'll find something here. Maybe this stuff will be of some use, will be evidence for him to locate their whereabouts. At least he hopes so.

He knows in another life he wouldn't even stop for a few moments to think, but as of now he still can't walk, still can't do shit. So he resorts to searching the apartment thoroughly, even though he knows they're not here.

It doesn't take him long to confirm that. He takes his phone, tries Dean's number. He knows it is futile, and yet, his heart sinks when Dean doesn't answer. He waits for the voicemail to pick up but then he has to cancel. He doesn't have Cas's number. He realises he forgot to take it. Dammit.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Where else could they be?

Sam leaves the apartment, wheeling himself down the ramp, and his heart gets stuck in his throat when he thinks of how Dean made it for him. In this world and every world, Dean's done too much for him and right now Sam can't fucking _locate_ his brother, as if that's a fucking difficult task, and how pathetic is that.

He's just locked the door and checked the salt lines when he sees Ellen coming over from the hallway. He blinks at her, seeing fire as he hears a blast, and his breath catches. She smiles at him.

He just nods and starts to wheel himself away but she calls after him.

"Sam?"

He doesn't look back. He doesn't want her to be dead but he knows she is. He wishes he could pluck her out of this world and take her back to his. He wishes he could tell her. But he can't and he feels selfish but he can't revisit his grief. Not again.

"Sam?"

He briefly pauses at the door, takes in Ellen's voice, and wheels himself out.

**~o~**

People are concerned for Sam all along the way to the library. He doesn't know how he does it but his hands are bleeding and he's pushing the wheels relentlessly, shaking. He needs to get there. All the summoning ingredients are gone. The paper Cas had written on is destroyed. He can remember most things but he needs to find them (he could have remembered—in his old world, he could have—but Abas has fucked them all over and Sam's gonna fucking kill him now).

He can't slacken, he can't slacken, can't slacken, can't slacken…

His hands are slippery with sticky blood and—

"Are you all right?"

He doesn't care. He stops outside of the library, looks at the ramp, grateful, and wheels himself in.

Sam goes to the bathroom, first thing, and washes his hands and face. He feels sick, anxiety, fear and helplessness roiling in his stomach as he tears off paper napkins and wipes himself. He looks at the cuts on his hands from wheeling here. They sting, some still bubbling with blood, but they're all worth it if he can just do what he's here for. So he tears off more paper napkins for them so that he won't stain the books, and gets to reading.

He can thankfully remember the books that Cas had referred to. He tries to not smear blood on the pages, fingers stinging. He still can't read but he looks at the pictures, head spinning a little bit, until he gets to the page they'd been on.

The words are jumbled just like before. Illegible. He squints at them but they don't make sense so he copies whatever letters are in there. He will sit to sort them out later on. He just needs the basics. Sure, his head is pounding, his body is on fire, and he thinks this will fucking kill him, but he remembers Dean in the hospital. He just doesn't care anymore. He reads, tries not to pass out or puke, reads more, rinse, repeat. Keeps doing it until it's a medical emergency.

It thankfully doesn't resort to that, though. He can unscramble some immediately if he just lets the pain do its thing. The process is excruciating, painful, horrible, _never again_.

_Good game, Abas, you kept me back because I'm a cripple, but I'll be the one to destroy you._

Somewhere in the back of his mind there is a loud laugh.

**~o~**

"Sam, just say yes, and we can end all this pain."

Sam looks up from deciphering the incantation he needs to use on Abas, only to see Lucifer. The devil, right in front of him like all the other times, and Sam doesn't know whether he should leave or stay.

"You know I won't hurt you," Lucifer tells him, folding his arms. "And yes, I said Detroit, but just think. This would be so much easier."

Sam clenches his jaw, looks down at his text. The devil can't harm him. He's alone. Lucifer can't possibly harm Dean or Cas…

"I know where they are," Lucifer continues. "If you think I can't reach them—"

Sam's head snaps up. "You stay away from them. Leave them alone."

"I don't intend to harm them," says Lucifer. "I think you'll remember. I told you, that I would never lie, or trick you into saying yes."

"And you call this _not_ tricking me?" Sam asks.

"That is Abas's way of dealing with it. It was not my suggestion. He wanted to have some fun."

Sam grins. "And you stole the opportunity. You still lied. You're no better than the monsters we kill. No better than the scum we put to death."

"I think your brother might say something like that to me at some point," says Lucifer, leaning back as he narrows his eyes. "But I could be wrong. Let's see. Time will tell."

He's gone before Sam can blink and then there is a voice—the speakers, he realises, and the library seems to be closing for the day. Sam looks down at his scrambled, messy list and tucks it into his pocket as he prepares to get back home just the way he got here. He doesn't mind the pain, though. It's all worth it if he can get Dean and Cas back.

That's all he needs right now.

**~o~**

He sees Ellen again when he's getting into the apartment. It is breezy outside and he knows it's the beginnings of a thunderstorm. He tried to rush away, to avoid her again (she's dead), but he ends up scraping a side of the wheel against the wall and before he knows it, his entire world is toppling and—

"Sam."

He is aching and sore and nauseated. His head pounds. All the parts of his body that can feel are screaming bloody murder. He just needs to sleep a while more. He'll go back to practice in a while. But just a few more moments. A break, some time away…

"Sam, sweetie." A hand strokes his hair. The voice is familiar. He leans into the touch.

A sigh. The hand strokes his hair once again. He thinks of Jess. He needs to meet her tonight and…

_A drop of something hot and sticky on his forehead. He opens his eyes and Jess is on the ceiling—_

"NO!"

Sam opens his eyes, this time for real, only to see Ellen sitting beside him. He's on the cold, hard floor, in profound, horrible fucking pain and he doesn't know what to do with himself. His heart is racing, but now his breaths pick up too.

"Ellen!"

"You fell," she says soothingly. "I think your wheelchair's broken. I tried to call Dean but he won't answer."

Sam licks his lips. "He's... he's still… at work. Probably busy." He wants her to go away.

"I'll try the garage then," Ellen tells him, reaching for her phone, but Sam raises his hand to stop her.

"N-No!"

"Sam, you're hurt and you need help," she says, her voice ever so familiar and kind, and Sam has to shake his head.

"I'll be all right," he whispers. "Just need meds and sleep."

"Sweetie—"

"'M okay, Ellen," he insists, and there is a lump in his throat now. I c-can do it. Please?"

She looks into his eyes and seems to understand. "You want me to leave?"

He turns away and finds himself nodding. And before he knows it, she's helping him drag himself into the apartment completely before she plants a kiss on his head and leaves. He watches her go and the door shut behind her, hearing the blasts again and again as his eyes burn. When he feels a salty tear make its track down his cheek he doesn't stop himself for just a couple of seconds. Then he gets back to work like nothing happened at all.

**~o~**

It takes him time to decipher everything completely and even then he is not sure. He unscrambles them, writing with sore hands, hoping it is all correct. His headache is worse than ever now, sickening; throbbing and pulsating through his skull and he's had to drag himself twice now to throw up into a vase their mom gifted them (she is gone too, in their real world, and Sam doesn't even know why he wants to go back there. He could just see Jess again, and Ellen and Mom, maybe, maybe…)

God, no, he can't go down that road right now.

He's tired. He just needs rest. He thinks passing out for a bit when Ellen had found him did him good, even though it's made him shaky now.

There are extra ingredients in his room. He has to drag himself, crawl, and he wishes his legs moved even a little. By the time he's moved himself to his room and come back, he is red faced and frustrated, angry with everything but he pulls himself together and makes the sigil with all the other stuff he's managed to bring.

It is a metaphorical pain in his ass to fix the salt lines (since his real ass can't feel). He thinks Dean would laugh. Dean's allowed to laugh at shit like this. Sam smiles at that, and makes a small break in the salt line at the place that's closest to him, just so he can fix it quickly again when Abas is in.

Having to crush another human finger is kinda disgusting but he does it anyway. He takes a deep breath once he's done, holds Cas's angel blade in one hand, and pulls out the paper he's written the incantation on. Cas had missed a word, he realises, probably from all the haste, but he's double and triple checked this, at least to the best of his abilities.

He stares at the paper, looks at it intently one more time, and starts reciting.

**~o~**

The lightning, the rolling of thunder isn't surprising to Sam. Supernatural creatures can be dramatic bastards sometimes, he remembers vaguely, and Abas's arrival is nothing different from all that bullshit. Sam finishes the chant, then restarts, hair flying to his face as his room cools down by several degrees. The words are like a mother tongue to him, though, rolling off him eloquently, and he keeps chanting, feeling the urgency, sensing Abas's disturbance, keeping at it, until—

There is a crash and a burst of pain at the back of his head and the hilt of the blade slides out of his hand, the dull _clang_ of it barely registering over the roaring in Sam's mind. He bites back a yelp and blinks up to see a man, tall with a hardened face, middle aged, and his eyes switch to black briefly as he closes in on Sam.

Sam tries to drag himself to the break in the salt line so he can trap the demon, but a sharp burst of electricity courses through his fingers as he flinches back.

"Oh no you don't, you scum," Abas hisses, flicking his wrist, and Sam struggles, his entire body locked.

He narrows his eyes at Abas. "Where are Dean and Cas?"

"That's for me to know," the demon tells him. "And I'll return them just like I bought them."

"If I say yes to Lucifer?" Sam snarls. "To what, exactly?"

"You know everything, Sam." Abas shrugs. "Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm saying. Now I'll call my father, and—"

"He hates you," says Sam. "You and your kind, he's not your father."

"Shut up!" Abas flicks his wrist again and pain shoots through Sam. He bites his lips, drawing blood, breathing when the pain lets go and trying to move, only to be held back by Abas again.

"You listen to me," the demon says, towering over Sam, cornering him, "you're going to say yes, and you're going to do it now."

"No."

"You won't?"

"No."

Sam feels himself jerk at that, then a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach when he's airborne, landing on the floor face first shortly after, chin dragging against rough salt. He can see his flask of holy water from here, not too far, just within reach and—

A boot connects with his healing shoulder. This time he screams, loud and horrified and he knows he can't take it anymore. Bile rushes up his throat but he swallows it down, breathing through the pain because he's had worse. He's had worse.

His eyes are watering now and he watches Abas bend over him. He can't let this happen. He can't lose like this. It's too soon to give up. Sam's other hand grabs a bit of the salt underneath him and throws it at the demon, who hisses and backs off. Sam seizes the opportunity to grab the holy water and throw it at Abas.

The smoke rising from Abas's face makes him growl, a feral, angry growl, and Sam's reaching for Cas's blade but before he can do anything, he feels a kick to his upper back.

His breath catches in his throat and his fingers curl in pain. Another kick and Sam can't move, his abused body too weak, but he tries, and then there is a third kick.

His vision blurs but Abas is kicking him repeatedly, and Sam tries to blink away the blackness, tries to stop the inevitable as he moves, just a little, and just a little more.

The kick to his face does it. The blackness crowds his eyes quicker than he can think and his lungs refuse to cooperate, head spinning as his breaths come out harsh and shallow. He feels himself drop completely, feels the world slow down and spin and he doesn't know what is going on anymore.

All he hears before he passes out, is an extremely familiar voice whispering about in his head.

_"_ _You know what to do, Sam."_


	5. Chapter 5

Sam wakes up with a jolt and a gasp, his breath coming in short, sharp pants, and for a moment he's not sure where he is, or what's happened. He tries to move, and groans at the _ache_ , the feeling that his whole body is a giant bruise. It comes to him a moment later, how he got to be here.

God, his shoulder. _Fuck_. His fucking shoulder is especially agonizing, but it feels better than it did when Abas had kicked him, so he hopes this means he won't need another surgery.

"Dean," he says, when he is confident he won't pass out again, voice taut and pained. "Cas?"

There is no reply; they're still missing. He hates that word, _missing,_ like it's something he misplaced, not something that's been taken from him, and he hates using it in conjunction with his brother and Cas, but it is what it is. They're still missing, absent, not here, away, and they won't be back unless he does something about it.

 _You know what to do_.

He does. _Say yes._ Say yes to the impersonation of evil— _Lucifer_ , as in, the fucking _Devil,_ Satan, Beelzebub.

But he can't.

He doesn't even know where to start figuring all of this out, even though he remembers some of it, even though Cas told him about all of it, about Jess; and he now knows why Dean lays down a line of salt at their doors and windows every night; why every time he's near Dean he can smell old leather and gun oil; why it feels like there's something in their lives that's missing and neither of them can say, exactly, what it is.

He knows why he keeps expecting to see a classic black Chevy instead of their red Dodge.

Until now it had felt like someone had placed a bad tracing paper sketch over a picture of their actual lives, and he feels the discomfort in it every fucking moment because none of this is real.

Everything is fading, going black around the edges, and the only constant is Dean.

Dean, who is missing (God, how Sam hates that word), and Sam wants him back, _needs_ him back because if Dean isn't in his life then Sam doesn't know what he'll do, how he'll survive. He's pretty sure he won't be able to because he just tried, and then promptly cut his hands and crashed his wheelchair and could barely talk to Ellen and almost died.

Not that a life without Dean in it is worth living, anyway. That much he knows.

 _You know what to do_.

There is a bitter tang of sulfur in Sam's nose, not a smell, more like the memory of one. A hazy picture of a woman in a black dress with sharp jet-black eyes flashes in his mind. A knife-edge smirk, and enticing, hellish promises.

Demons.

_You know_

If Lucifer and Abas are involved, so are other demons.

_what_

So he needs

_to do._

to find a demon.

Summon a demon it is, then. Not Abas this time. And it's not like he can just call the cops or go out on his own, and besides, weird as it is… this feels familiar. Demons and the Devil and magic or whatever this is. It feels… like he's done it countless times before.

**~o~**

It is an absolutely _awful_ struggle, and by the time it's over Sam's entire body hurts even more, but somehow he manages to drag himself all over the apartment to find the things he needs. If Cas hadn't spoken to them, explained their situation to them, he wouldn't know how he knows—that there's some kind of ingredients list in his head like the world's most fucked up recipe.

He takes a break to rest once he's got everything he needs, and sighs forlornly as he looks at the weird little tableau he's set up. A bowl, candles, a pentagram on the floor… he feels like he's on the set of some cheesy horror flick, and not the good kind either. Despite everything, though, he can't help but snort a little at the thought of what Dean in this world would think if he could see all this.

But Dean is missing, and that thought more than anything else spurs him into action once more.

He's got the ingredients of the recipe, but he's not sure how exactly to go about the actual ~~cooking~~ summoning part. Horror movies tend to disagree on the exact correct method of summoning biblical personifications of evil, and in any case, they're not accurate, are they? God, this is all so _complicated_ , and Sam can feel the beginnings of a headache in his temples. All of this is so exhausting and overwhelming, and he just wants Dean back. And, a bubble of something rises in his chest: Cas too _._

 _You know what to do_.

The words come to him without any input from his brain, without any conscious thought. It feels incredibly similar to those times when you hear a song from your childhood, and realize you still somehow know the lyrics even though it's been years since you've heard it. The words feel right in Sam's mouth, familiar, like he's spoken them so many times before that they've become muscle memory, and he knows that's exactly what's happening here.

_"_ _Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me."_

Nothing happens, but that's probably because all he's done is said the words out loud. But that's okay. He knows what to do, now.

He drags himself forward by his elbows and torso, absolutely _hating_ that he can't even feel the drag of the carpet against his legs. They feel like dead weight, a coarse reminder of everything that's happened to him, and he feels like he's going to choke.

 _Keep yourself together_ , he tells himself. _You have to find Dean._

He tweaks the pentagram almost absently, not sure what he's drawing inside it, just letting his hand and muscle memory do the work for him. Then he puts the bowl in it, and lights the candles, and grabs a handful of the herbs he found in the kitchen. This is it, then. He breathes in, deep, and says the words.

_"_ _Ad ligandum eos pariter eos coram me."_

The herbs—he thinks it's basil—spark and light up as they fall into the bowl, and Sam jolts back. He's sure he hasn't imagined the fire, but there is no heat. Instead, it feels cold, somehow dead.

There is a tang of sulphur to the air, and Sam looks up to see a demon sitting in the Devil's trap he's drawn. She looks completely relaxed, sitting cross-legged, looking at him serenely with jet-black eyes. "Hey, Sam," she says, and grins. They're normal human teeth, but in her red-painted mouth they look jagged, shark-like.

Sam, in no mood for small talk with a creature that he's only recently discovered (rediscovered?) exists, gets straight to the point. "Where's my brother? Where's Dean?"

She clicks her tongue, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her thighs. The movement causes her low-cut dress to shift, revealing even more cleavage. It's not sexy, though. By all means she appears to be an attractive woman around Sam's age, with a voluptuous figure accentuated by her black dress, but there's something about her that is definitely inhuman, predatory. It puts Sam on edge, and he can feel a chill go down whatever functional part of his spine is left.

"Now that's no way to talk," she says, mocking.

"Where's Dean?" demands Sam again. He is honestly too tired, too angry for any of this. He just wants his brother.

"Why don't you come here and find out?" she taunts. She doesn't have to look at his legs for him to know that she's mocking him.

"Fuck you," he grits out. "Just tell me where Dean is, where Cas is, and I promise I won't kill you."

She laughs, actually laughs, a loud cackle that makes his ears want to bleed. "Oh honey." She clicks her tongue. "You couldn't kill a roach in this state. But," she adds, winking, "that's not to say that you can't get better."

It takes Sam a moment for the words to work past his anger and frustration, and it feels like his brain short-circuits. "What?"

"You know what I mean," she says, leaning back again and stretching her legs out in front of her.

Sam has no idea what she means. "Is this some kind of new game?"

She sighs deeply. "Honestly, and they said you were the smart one." Before he can work out what she means by that, she reaches out and says, "Hey, hand me that knife, will you?"

"No," he refuses, glaring.

She rolls her eyes. "Don't be an idiot, I can't hurt you while I'm in this—" she gestures down to the Devil's trap. "I just want to show you something." When he still looks uncertain, she adds, "Look, do you wanna find your brother, or not?"

"Of course I do," he begins hotly, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to just give you a damn knife."

 _You know what to do_ , the voice in his head says. He blanches as it adds, _do it_.

It's not just saying yes this time. There's more to it. More… that he doesn't remember.

_Oh god._

"Well, hon, you've gotta give a little to get a little," says the demon, inspecting her fingernails. "Look, if you don't care, just tell me and I'll be on my way. You're wasting both of our time here. I was in the middle of a really great deal when you summoned me, and I'd like to get back to that."

Sam disregards everything she says after the first sentence. "This will really help me find them?" he asks, trying his best not to sound uncertain and hesitant.

"Yes." She looks up at him, watching him carefully.

He sighs. He supposes that there's always the chance she'll kill him with the knife, but what the hell. If she wanted to, he's sure she would have already. But it doesn't seem like she will. There's something about her demeanor that suggests that she is deliberately acting like this, like she has an ulterior motive, some overreaching arc to all of this that he can't quite see.

 _You know what to do_.

"Ugh, shut up," he mutters, before holding her the knife, blade first, and glaring pointedly at her in the hopes of scaring her into not killing him, if that's indeed what she has on her demonic little mind.

She doesn't; instead she just uses the knife to cut a gash into the palm of her hand. The sharp smell of sulphur fills the air again, this time much stronger, and for some inexplicable reason, Sam's mouth waters a little.

"What the hell," he begins, but she cuts him off, angling forward, her palm dripping thick, dark blood on Dean's floors.

"Do you feel that?" she asks him eagerly. "That _hunger_ , that craving, that—" she licks her lips, and he is revolted, but also so, so _tempted_. "That bloodlust?" she finishes on a whisper, and he is surprised to find that he has moved himself almost to the edge of the trap. He didn't realize he was doing it.

"What the hell," he repeats, glaring at her. "What the _hell_?"

She stretches her arm towards him, and the smell hits him hard. He's leaning forward before he can stop himself, and is horrified to gather that what he's about to do is _drink_ it. _Drink her blood_. What the actual fuck?

 _Do it_ , the voice repeats in his head, fucking Devil or whatever, and he sounds malicious in his glee. _You know what to do. Do it._

He recoils from her. He can't, he can't, this is _awful_ , it's revolting beyond belief, and he knows he would be throwing up if he didn't feel so damn pathetically tempted, almost like it's an old addiction, like a reformed alcoholic who smells whiskey and craves it, or a former crackhead looking for one more hit—

"What did you do to me?" he growls. It comes out strained, tense.

She laughs. "Oh, honey, nothing that you haven't already done to yourself. This isn't your first time, babe. Far from it. Or do you not remember?"

He doesn't. His body does.

"Oh wow," she says, no longer laughing. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"What are you _doing_ to me?" he all but yells. The smell is too much, he wants, _needs_ it now, and he doesn't care what he has to do to get it.

"Interesting," she murmurs. Her arm is still held out, not tiring, an inch away from Sam's face, and it's all he can do to hold himself back, to remind himself that this is _blood_ , it's a demon's _blood_ , and he may have done some questionable things in his life but he's never fallen this far, ever. Or has he?

Has he?

 _You know what to do_ , the Devil's insidious voice whispers in his ear. _Do it_.

This is not a good idea. This is a horrible, terrible, fucking _awful_ idea.

It's also all he has.

Dean wouldn't like this. Dean would _hate_ this.

But he's not here, is he?

This is evil, he's sure of it. He can't remember it, but his body can, and it can also remember a dark, cold room, the bitter taste of vomit in the back of his throat, the pain pervading every last inch of his body.

He swallows, feeling cold all of a sudden. He has no choice. He doesn't know anything, he has serious doubts about his own sanity, his body is refusing to cooperate with him thanks to the spinal injury, and all he wants is Dean, he just needs Dean. Everything's going to be okay once he has Dean back, this much he knows.

 _You know what to do_.

He hates himself so much right now.

 _Do it_.

If his gut instinct isn't wrong—and it never is—then this is akin to a recovering alcoholic giving in and downing a bottle. The crackhead going for another hit. He _hates_ himself.

He needs Dean, and this is the only way. He can handle anything Dean will throw at him for this, as long as there's a Dean to throw anything at him.

He takes a deep breath, tries to prepare himself, then wonders how one can go about preparing themselves for _drinking a demon's blood_.

 _You know what to do_.

"What's going to happen to you?" he asks the demon, who's gone back to examining her fingernails.

"Well, if you drink too much, I'll die," she tells him casually, like it's no big deal. "And I'll lose out on that deal," she adds. Sam can't really bring himself to give a shit about that.

"And you don't care? That you'll die?"

She shrugs. "I'm just a cog in a machine, baby. Someone else is going to take my place." He has to wonder at her absolute, unshakeable loyalty to Lucifer, that she's so ready and nonchalant about dying for his twisted cause, whatever it is.

He takes another deep breath, then another. And another. He braces himself and decides that there is no way he can do this if he lets himself think about it. The only way is to give in to the addiction screaming through his blood, running through his body—and so he does. He gives up and gives in and he lets himself lunge forward and grab the demon's arm, and the horror he feels as he begins drinking it is only an absent though in the back of his mind, eclipsed with pleasure and lust for more.

The demon makes a sound in the back of her throat, it sounds like a moan but he can't tell if she's in pain or finding a sick kind of pleasure in this, probably both, and in the back of his mind he can hear the Devil laughing and laughing, delighted at seeing him reduced to this, a cripple drinking a demon. God it sounds like a sick joke, and Sam wants to stop, wants to push her away and vomit, wants to cleanse himself of all of this, but he can't, he can't, he needs this, needs it to find Dean (and also because it's the best damn thing he's ever tasted, and he _hates himself so fucking much_ ) and he'll never be clean again, he'll never be pure again, he'll never be good again—

The Devil is going to kill himself laughing, and the sound fills Sam's ears, pervades every inch of his being, and he hates himself, he hates everything, and he wants to die, he wants to never stop drinking, he feels so _alive_ , he feels like his soul is withering up inside him and crumbling to pieces.

He doesn't stop until there's nothing left to drink, and when he comes to his senses, the demon is lying lifelessly on the rug, and there is blood all over his arms to his elbows, and on her pretty dress, and on his face, oh God it's on his _face_ —

He retches, but nothing comes up even as it feels like his stomach is wringing itself out. He wants to cut himself open and drain himself of this, this _sickness_ , this _evil_ inside him, but he can't deny that he also feels powerful, feels like he can do anything with just his mind, and oh, oh he hates himself so much. So much, and he doesn't think he'll ever stop, he doesn't think he'll ever be worthy of love ever again.

His gaze falls on one of Dean's jackets, casually slung over the back of the sofa like he just came home five minutes ago and couldn't be bothered to put it in its rightful place, and suddenly his mind feels clear, his thoughts no longer a jumble of self-hatred and _wrongwrongwrong_. He needs to get Dean back. He can handle anything as long as he has Dean by his side.

 _You know what to do_. The fucking Devil, but at least he isn't cackling madly anymore.

Sam no longer has to go back to his painfully unscrambled notes for the spell to summon Abas. The information is right there at the forefront of his brain, shining, clear as day, and Sam gets to work, ignoring the Devil whispering in his ear.

**~o~**

Abas looks not at all amused at being summoned, and especially not at being in a Devil's trap with the corpse of another demon. "What is it?" he asks Sam irritably. "Didn't I just squash you like a cockroach?"

Unlike the previous demon, he doesn't bother getting on Sam's level, and instead remains towering, probably so he can exude power. Sam doesn't care. Let him display all the power he wanted, because in a while he was going to be dead. Of that, Sam is sure.

He counters Abas's question with one of his own. "Where's my brother?"

"I told you," replies Abas, rolling his eyes, looking extremely annoyed at having to be here. "You'll have him back when you give my father your answer."

Without really thinking about it, Sam raises his hand and clenches it into a fist. Immediately Abas grunts, falling to his knees, making choking sounds. His eyes are popping out of his head. He looks like he's in pain, and at that Sam feels a grim satisfaction. Good. Let him feel a fraction of what Sam's feeling, what he's been feeling consistently over the past few days. Let him suffer.

"I said," Sam says calmly, looking Abas square in the face now that they're eye to eye, "where's my brother?"

"I don't know!" Abas repeats, choking, and there is a frantic quality to his voice now that greatly pleases Sam. "I swear, I don't know."

"How?" Sam is kind of scaring himself right now, with how utterly deadly he sounds. He doesn't care, which scares him a little more. It's like there are two halves of him at war right now, but he'll worry about that when he has to. Right now, his focus is Dean and Cas, and only Dean and Cas.

Abas says, "This wasn't supposed to happen like this, all right? This isn't what I had in mind. I don't know where your brother is." He breaks eye contact with Sam. "I swear."

Sam believes him. He doesn't like it, but he does, and that makes him even angrier.

"What the fuck do you mean, this wasn't supposed to happen? What did you do?" he questions.

"What did you _do_?" he repeats when Abas doesn't answer at once.

The demon looks hesitant, like he's afraid of something. Something other than Sam, that is, and holy fuck but it's a heady rush of power, having a demon look at him like he is something to be terrified of. "Listen," he begins. "This isn't all me, okay, this wasn't my idea. I just wanted to have some fun. You want more information about your brother and that angel, you'll have to ask the big boss yourself. Okay? Okay. Can I go now?"

"No you can't," says Sam calmly, and clenches his fist again. Abas falls forward on all fours, choking some more, and he coughs up blood. Sam doesn't spare it more than a moment of thought; he's got all that he needs now, to do this.

"What do you want?" Abas all but screams, one hand scrabbling at the collar of his suit like he can somehow breathe if only he just loosens his tie a little. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want my brother," says Sam. "I want my brother, you bastard, and I want you to tell me how to get out of here with them. But before that, tell me exactly why we got here in the first place. Your whole plan." He smiles, well aware that his teeth are bloodied, and he must look absolutely terrifying. "If you don't, the 'big boss' will be the least of your worries."

The Devil is no longer cackling in his ear; he is worryingly quiet, and Sam doesn't give a single fuck.

Abas looks appropriately terrified, but still hesitant. "Look, you don't know him, all right?" he begins. "You don't know what he'll do to me if I—"

Almost looking bored, Sam casually flicks a hand towards Abas, who lets out a strangled scream, coughing up more blood, a steady stream of it by now, and Dean is going to be _so_ pissed when he sees the mess Sam's made of his carpet. A thin cloud of black rises over Abas's head, originating from his mouth, and somehow Sam knows what this means. He focuses some more, and Abas screams.

"Stop! Stop, fuck, stop, I'll tell you," he gasps, and Sam blinks at him, lowering his hand.

"Start," he demands. "And if, for a moment, I get the idea that you're lying? You will wish you had died when you had the chance."

Abas swallows. "Look, I told you this wasn't my plan, right? It was Lucifer's. You won't say yes to him and it's pissing him off, all right? He hasn't had to work this hard for anything in _ages_ and he doesn't like it. No one can resist him for too long, but you've been holding out and he's getting desperate now. He needs that yes. He's burning out his vessel, and there's only so much he can do to repair it before he ends up wasting too much energy on it. So he needs you, all right?

"So he told me to do all of this—" the demon gestures around them, the room Sam's in, his _home,_ or is it? "He told me to pull you into this alternate reality, and to break you until you're so desperate to be all right that you'll do anything. But obviously, it's not working. I have no fucking idea how, but you figured it out, and now your brother and that damn angel, I don't know where they are, and I don't know what the hell Lucifer's gonna do, and what's going to happen to you. Fuck, I don't even know what's gonna happen to _me_."

"Okay. And Dean?"

"I don't know," Abas replies, frustrated. "Dean's not my focus here, okay? He's Michael's problem. Lucifer told us to concentrate on you. I can't help you there."

The edges of Sam's vision are swimming; he looks around to find that everything looks faded somehow, dull and discolored. He wonders if maybe it's an effect of the demon blood, then decides he'll worry about it later. "Tell me this," he says to Abas. "You pulled me away from the world I really live in. You fucked with my mind to the point I no longer know what's real and what isn't. You crippled me. And worst of all, you took my brother from me. How the hell did you think I would say yes after all of this?"

Abas shrugs again. "I told you, it didn't go according to plan, okay? I don't know what comes after this. I don't know what's going to happen now."

"Can you take me home?" Sam demands. "To where I'm really from?" Maybe that's where Dean is. And Cas.

Abas shakes his head. "No."

"Why not?" Sam says, voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. After all of this; nothing? He can't live like this, he can't, not without Dean, not like this—

"I told you," Abas says, again with that patient, kindergarten teacher tone, "I don't know. Nothing went the way it was supposed to. I can't—I'm losing power, all right? I wasted too much creating this reality, and even more trying to fix things when they started going wrong. I haven't got enough to do much of anything right now. You're stuck here, as far as I know."

All Sam can see now is Abas; everything beyond and around is nothing but darkness. The rage that consumes him is fiery in its power, eating him up from the inside out, destroying his veins as it runs through his body, his blood, his heart. He wants to scream, he wants to destroy things, he wants to hurt whoever is the reason for all of this. All he's ever wanted, for as long as he can remember, is Dean, just Dean by his side, where he's meant to be, and this, all of this, it's too much, it's too fucking much, he feels like he's going to scream from the agony, the injustice of it all. God knows where Dean is, where Cas is; God knows if Cas can help. All Sam can do is a big fat bag of jack shit. He doesn't even have it in him to hope anymore, not when there's nothing left to hope _for_.

"Kid, what are you doing?" Abas's voice is apprehensive.

Without a second thought Sam raises his hand and destroys the demon who is partly responsible for all this, and he pays no mind to the screams of agony.

**~o~**

The darkness does not dissipate even after the demon is gone; Sam feels like he's held in mid-air somehow. Everything around him is strange, nonsensical—he slight outline of Dean's jacket on the back of the couch, and how it looks blurry around the edges; Sam's own legs, folded uselessly under his body, but they're hurting, for some reason; the ingredients for his spells and the dead demons, who seem to be dissolving into the carpet, and oh man that's gonna be a bitch to clean up.

Dean can't clean up jack shit though, if he's not here, and it hits Sam once more that he'll never find Dean. He'll never see Dean again, not in this universe, not ever. There's nothing left for him here, no life, no career, no Dean, and all he wants is to curl up and die.

Without really thinking about it he moves, dragging himself to where the couch is, struggling to breathe and to tolerate the pain he feels everywhere but especially in his heart; he suffers and struggles for minutes that feel like hours until he can reach up with one hand and grab Dean's jacket, pull it to himself and hold it close. He presses it to his face, inhaling deeply, but the soothing scent of motor oil and musk is fading already, or maybe Sam's the one that's fading? He doesn't know. He doesn't care.

 _I can fix this_. It's the Devil again.

"No you can't," Sam whispers. "You can't. Nothing can fix this." He's aware he's crying into Dean's jacket, ruining it probably, but nothing matters anymore.

_Say yes. Say yes and you can have your legs back. And your brother. It's just one word._

"No." He's fucked up enough. Last thing he needs on top of it all is to destroy the world.

 _Think about it_ , coaxes the Devil. _Dean. You won't have to chase his scent in his clothes if you'll have the real thing. And your legs, of course. Don't you want to be all right again?_

Oh, he wants it, he wants it more than anything, to have Dean back, his legs, to be back home, his _real_ home—but he knows the consequences. He can still feel the demon blood singing through him; he doesn't need another fuck-up on top of it.

"No," he repeats, his voice muffled into Dean's jacket. There is barely a trace of his scent left, and inadvertently Sam lets out a sob. He wants Dean, he wants his brother—

_All you have to do is say one tiny word._

"NO!" Sam yells. His voice cracks. "Just leave me alone. Leave me alone."

Surprisingly, the Devil listens. Sam spares a moment to think of how this probably isn't the end, no way is Lucifer giving up this easy, and he'll probably be back… but then he turns his attention back to Dean's jacket in his hand, well-worn and soft denim, and he thinks of how this is all he's got left of his brother. This is all he's ever going to have of Dean.

All he wants to do is curl up here, against the back of the couch, clutching Dean's jacket until his body gives up and he dies. He doesn't even care anymore. He thinks maybe, if he dies, he can wait for Dean in heaven.

But is he even going to be allowed in, after the demon blood fiasco? Probably not.

There goes that hope, then. Sam muffles another sob into his brother's jacket, choking on his cries, his entire body hurting but his heart most of all, God it feels like it's going to split in half and crumble until there's nothing left of him, nothing left to save, nothing left to bury, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care. Not without Dean.

He passes out with his face still pressed to Dean's jacket, which no longer smells like Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub.

It's all Sam can hear, his own racing pulse bounding in his ears. He feels a hard, uncomfortable surface beneath him and as his senses come back to him he slowly starts to realize that he is lying facedown on the ground. It doesn't feel as rough as concrete so he's probably somewhere indoors.

He groans, moving his shaky arms out from the awkward position underneath him and rolling onto his back. His eyes focus onto his surroundings and he immediately recognises the stained ceiling.

He gasps as everything comes rushing back to him. Abas, Lucifer, his brother and Cas missing, the dance, his legs, the wheelchair, the summoning, Ellen… _everything_. He raises his hands to his eyes. They're not cut anymore.

Right. He's in the real world now. Abas is gone and everything else… Jess, Jake, _Ellen_ …

Sam grits his teeth to stop himself from thinking of it and tries to move his legs to get to his feet, but he finds he can't. His heart rate speeds up some more. He was supposed to be okay. He wasn't supposed to be paralyzed in the real world. Gritting his teeth against the onslaught of emotions, he cranes his neck, trying to spot Dean and Cas.

Sam seems to be on the far side of the room, near the bed closest to the door and from his view, he can only see a foot and part of jeans that look like Dean's, but he cannot spot Cas. He sits up, trying to catch a glance over the beds.

Shifting his body towards the bed nearest to him, he rests a hand on it, getting ready to pull himself up onto it when he hears what sounds like keys scratching at a lock. He looks towards the door of the motel room, defenseless.

He gulps, as he door swings open. He spots wheels, a sleeveless jacket, and a familiar face with a baseball cap on their head.

"Bobby," Sam breaths. He feels every ounce of adrenaline leave him while another part of him is taken back to the world they just escaped as his eyes fixate onto the wheelchair. "Man, it's good to see you."

"Likewise, son. Now where are the other two idjits?" he asks as he slams the door close behind him.

Sam motions towards the farther end of the room, "I can't see Cas from here, but I think I saw part of Dean's foot."

"Boy, can't you get to your feet?" the old man asks as he wheels himself towards the other end of the room.

Sam blinks rapidly, trying to stop it all from getting to him. He looks at his legs, rubbing his hand across his thigh, sighing when he can't feel anything. "I...can't," he says quietly, enough that Bobby can't hear.

He thinks Bobby is going to ask him something, but then they both hear Dean groan and Sam forgets about his legs, all attention towards his brother. "Dean, you okay?" he asks.

"I think so," he hears back. Relief floods through him again.

"You're fine, ya idjit. Don't you two ever do that to me again," Bobby reprimands as he wheels back towards Sam. Dean gets to his feet and walks off a little farther, and Sam assumes he's checking on Cas.

"Sorry, Bobby."

"Nah, I'm messing with you. Just got me worried, is all. That boy, okay, Dean?"

"I'm not a boy. I'm an angel of the Lord," Cas announces, making Sam chuckle.

Cas sways as he gets up and Dean helps him sit on the bed. He then looks at Sam, and Sam can practically hear him think as Dean scrutinizes him.

"Why are you still on the floor, Sam?"

Sam clenches his jaw, not replying. However, Dean immediately understands, just like Sam expected him to.

"But, that's not possible is it? We got out," Dean says, hurrying over and bending down to help Sam up onto the bed.

Sam sees Bobby watching curiously but ignores it. "I don't know, Dean. I still can't feel anything."

Dean looks at Cas. "Is this possible? Can you fix it?"

"I don't know, Dean. I don't have enough power left in me but I will try," Cas moves towards Sam's bed, settling next to him. He raises two fingers, placing them onto Sam's forehead and frowns a second later.

"What?" Sam asks. He still feels the same. He can't move his fucking legs.

"I can't find anything wrong with you physically. You aren't injured in any way."

"Then why the hell can't I move my damn legs, Cas? This was supposed to be fixed once we got out of there," Sam spouts.

"It could be a psychological thing however. I do sense psychological disturbance but I can't pinpoint it enough to heal it. The human psyche is very complicated and I could do more damage than good if I tried and I'd rather not take the risk," Castiel explains, calmly.

"What, so, psychosomatic is what you're saying?" Sam asks, somber.

"It's possible."

"Great, just great. Just fucking great," Sam groans. He looks at Bobby who is patiently sitting aside.

"It's a long story, but, in the other world, I got in an accident and was bound to a wheelchair the whole time," Sam explains, feeling like if there's anyone who could understand his frustration right now, it would be Bobby.

Bobby throws him an empathetic look. "Well, I can definitely say that I can relate, Sam. But if you say it's psychosomatic, it will very well heal soon. You just need to give it time."

Sam nods, figuring Bobby's right.

"Now, if you idjits are good, I'm gonna go get some shut eye. I've had enough worry and lack of sleep to last me a lifetime." He looks at Cas. "There's a spare bed in my room if you need somewhere to sleep."

"Angels don't sleep," Cas says.

"Well, if you need a break from these two here, you're welcome to come to my room. Just don't stare at me or else I'll be the last thing you see before I kill you myself," Bobby threatens as he opens the door of the room and wheels himself out.

Cas quietly follows and Sam recognizes the gesture as a means of giving them privacy and feels grateful. He nods a silent thanks towards Cas as he shuts the door behind him.

Dean pats Sam's legs in reassurance and walks to his own bed. "Am I the only one that feels that we could sleep for ten years straight?"

Sam grins. "Nah, I'm right there with you." He takes a deep breath, uneasy, and looks at his hands, which are now shaking. A familiar sense of dread washes over him while he looks at Dean, who is straightening out his bedcovers and fluffing his pillow.

"Um, Dean?"

Dean looks up, and the tired expression on his face changes to one of worry. "What's wrong?"

"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But… I didn't know. I didn't even know until she… she told me about it and… I…" he sighs, because he doesn't even think he can justify himself. He's made a god-awful mistake and he hates himself for it. He wishes he'd been smarter… wishes Cas had just told him, or that he'd known. Something. _Anything._

Dean, however, obviously has no clue what Sam's saying, so his eyes are narrowed as he tries to understand. "Calm down, Sam," he says. "What are you talking about?"

Sam swallows, stomach churning. "I...drank demon blood. In that world. To get us out. I summoned a demon so I could find you, and she… I didn't even remember, Dean. She made me drink it. I think...I think I'm feeling the aftereffects now. Withdrawal, I mean," he explains, hesitating every few words.

Sam watches as Dean glares at him. He knows he's let him down. He'd promised himself and his brother that he would never touch demon blood again. Dean has every right to be pissed off at him right this moment.

He sighs, feeling guilty as Dean purses his lips, nods at Sam and gets into bed, facing away from him.

Sam decides he doesn't need to burden Dean with his detox again. He'll deal with it on his own, because this is his fault. He scoots lower onto his own bed, and lays down, facing Dean's back. He takes a deep breath trying to calm his nerves and shuts his eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

**~o~**

Screaming. He can hear screaming. He needs to help them. Someone is in danger. But he can't see anything. Why can't he see anything? Everything is too dark. Too fucking dark, dammit.

_Sam. Sammy._

Someone's calling his name. He needs to get to them, see what they need. It's what he does. Save people, hunt things. He needs to rescue them somehow.

"Sam!"

He doesn't understand. He knows that voice.

"Sammy!"

He feels someone shaking him. He knows this someone, doesn't he?

"Sammy, snap out of it!"

Dean. It's Dean. Is Dean in trouble?

He realizes he can't see because his eyes seem to be shut. He struggles, trying to get them to open.

Immediately, he sits up as his eyelids finally cooperate and it dawns on him that the screaming he hears is his own. His scream cuts off midway, his throat now feeling like it's on fire. His system is having a warring within itself setting alarms everywhere and he aches all over for it. He _craves_ it. Needs it.

But no, he can't. It's disgusting, and Dean would be even madder at him. He'd hate him. He's already let him down, he can't do it again.

"Sammy, I don't hate you," he hears Dean say. That's a lie. A big fucking lie.

He hears a sigh. "It's not. Sammy, it was a nightmare. You wouldn't stop screaming, I had to wake you up."

Sam feels himself nod, almost on autopilot. He decides he's gonna lay back down. He vaguely registers that he seems to have regained feeling in his toes, but right now it doesn't seem to matter.

He needs to just sleep, and not be a nuisance to Dean again. He'll make sure he doesn't scream again.

He hears Dean sigh again, feels covers being put onto him, and part of him feels like he doesn't deserve the gesture. He probably deserves to shiver and freeze as he sleeps.

He hears the rustle of sheets as Dean lays back down on his own bed. This time, Sam's facing away from him.

He slowly drifts off towards oblivion, falling into a restless sleep.

**~o~**

Sam doesn't know how long he's been using the toilet bowl as a pillow, but the nausea still hasn't eased. He doesn't even know if he has anything left to puke up anymore.

The positive of this was that he seemed to have regained most of the feeling in his legs, even though they felt weak as hell and he still had to crawl on all fours to the bathroom when the nausea hit him.

But it was a welcome change from having to use his upper arms and butt to drag himself places.

Dean hasn't walked in yet so there's only two possibilities. One, Dean's in a deep sleep and hasn't heard Sam turning himself inside out, or two, he's heard Sam but doesn't care.

Like he didn't seem to before. Sam was always left alone in the panic room for his detoxing sessions. Just like this, but Dean was just more physically absent then. And while Sam appreciated everyone not witnessing his misery, he'd also felt a twinge of hurt that Dean hadn't been around to even check on how he was doing.

He understood why, he did, but if Dean had been in Sam's place, Sam would have done all he could to make it easier for his brother.

Sam sighs, shakily lifting his head from the edge of the toilet bowl. It just goes to show how much he's disappointed Dean.

He hears the jiggling of a doorknob on the other side and steels himself. The door opens and Dean is standing there, leaning on the door frame.

He clicks his tongue, staring at Sam with a sorry expression on his face. "Feeling like crap, are we?"

Sam bites down the retort he has in mind, not wanting to start a fight. He ignores his brother as a wave of nausea hits him again.

"Serves you right," Dean comments.

It feels like a stab wound through his gut, but Sam continues to ignore him.

"Really, Sam? The silent treatment? You know you were never good at that right?"

Sam gulps gingerly, rage coursing through him. Yeah, he made a mistake, yes, he's a fucking disappointment, but right now, he is doing nothing to bother Dean. He made it a point to deal with his own shit himself so he can't seem to understand why Dean would sacrifice his beauty sleep just to taunt Sam.

"If you're here to just goad and taunt me," Sam hisses, because, really, he's just feeling sick as hell and miserable right now, "leave me alone. I never asked you to get out of bed."

"Touchy, touchy. Someone's in a foul mood."

"What do you want, Dean?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to see your sad little face. You did this to yourself, you know. Let me down yet again, kiddo."

Sam clenches his fists. He doesn't need this right now. He doesn't need his brother telling him he's a failure yet again. He shuts his eyes. "Shut up."

"You can't do one damn thing right, can you? You promised me you wouldn't touch that stuff again, and yet here we are. You're pathetic, Sammy."

"SHUT UP!" Sam bellows. "Shut. Up. Shut up, shut up, shut up—" he's repeating it loudly, constantly, and he barely hears thumping footsteps and a snap. He blinks. Dean is gone.

_What?_

Someone bangs at the door, causing Sam to jump.

"Sam, open up. Sammy?"

Sam blinks. He'd forgotten he'd locked the door. The Dean he just saw wasn't real, right? That was just a hallucination?

He shakily crawls to the door, opening it, and situates himself back near the toilet seat as a wave of nausea hits him again and he heaves into the toilet, bringing up bile and emptiness and sorrow and his need for more and he feels like his stomach is going to escape his mouth anytime now. It hurts, pains him, shit, but he flinches when he feels a familiar hand rubbing comforting circles on his back. Dean.

No, he doesn't need this. He doesn't want Dean's sympathy…

He shakes Dean away because he doesn't need that, doesn't need it, and Dean, taking the message, slumps down, waiting for Sam to finish.

And when Sam does sit back a few seconds later, he's gasping for breath, tears running down his face that are partly from the physical pain and agony and partly from what he just experienced. He's trembling everywhere and his stomach is still roiling, his head spinning, and he's restless and tired and he's had enough. He pulls his knees to his chest.

"Sammy?" A hand comes to grip at his shoulder, but Sam shrugs him away.

"I'm sorry." He buries his face into his knees, shivers rocking his body. _I let you down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Please don't hate me. Don't hate me…_

"Sammy, why would I hate you?" Dean asks, sitting next to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. Sam realises he said it all out loud. He doesn't shake Dean away again, though, but he leans in a bit.

"I drank fucking demon blood, Dean."

"Yeah, I know," Dean retorts. "So?"

 _"_ _So?!"_

Dean holds him closer, lets Sam tuck his face into his shoulder. "Yeah, I know," he whispers. "It wasn't your fault."

Sam shakes his head. Again and again. Dean—he knew, even in that other world, that it was wrong. Even if he didn't know how and why. Drinking anyone's blood in any situation, in any universe is not right. There is no excuse…

"Sam," Dean says, "you were desperate. Me and Cas were gone. I get it."

Sam bites his lip, chokes down traitorous tears. "I'm sorry."

"For what exactly, dude. We just went over that one."

"I–I'm a mess and detoxing and you have to see it all, yet again. I've already done enough of that."

"And? You think I've never seen you sick before?"

"You were pissed," Sam whispers. He feels like a kid. He's tired of Dean being angry at him. He misses their harmony from the other world. Where they were still brothers and functioning. Where Dean cared. And right now…

Dean sighs. "Sam, I get it, okay? I just was caught off guard when you told me earlier. Yeah, I was pissed but when you were asleep I realized that it was a situation that you weren't gonna win. And I ain't gonna tell you off for that now."

Those are the best words Sam's heard in ages and he makes himself comfortable in Dean's embrace, cheek rested against familiar fabric. He takes a deep breath. "You mean that, right, Dean? You're not fucking around with me?"

"Scouts honor," Dean says raising his hand.

"You were never a boy scout," Sam teases him, heart lifting a little.

Dean snorts. "You're totally cuddling up to me, though."

Sam lifts his head, wrinkling his nose. "Ew."

"You didn't get puke on me, did you?" Dean asks him, glancing at the shoulder Sam had rested his face in.

"I didn't, you jerk, I'm not a kid."

"You're a little shit, though."

"Shut up," Sam says, tired and slurring, "or I swear I'll puke on you."

"You're gross."

" _You're_ gross."

"Bobby's gonna come yell at us if we don't get to sleep," Dean says. "So you ready to move your ass to the bed?"

Sam swallows, feels his stomach churn some more, and shakes his head. "Wait?"

"All right, Sammy." Dean offers him his shoulder again and Sam leans in, curling his arms around his cramping stomach.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes while Sam's nausea quells. Dean helps Sam back to bed afterwards, and quietly keeps a trashcan near him and Sam is thankful. This is the Dean he missed. This is the Dean that's real.

As Dean falls asleep, Sam lies on his back in his bed, feeling for the first time that he's not at odds with his brother.

He feels like they can actually get through this shitstorm that he's created.

Dean believes him, and that's all that he cares about.

**~o~**

"Sam, what the hell is taking you so long?" Dean whines, standing at the doorway of yet another no-name motel room.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Get to the car, I'll be there in a minute."

They still haven't found a way to deal with Lucifer and it's now been a couple of weeks since they got back from what Dean likes to call the 'prissy ass world'. Sam still struggles with walking when he wakes up in the morning but as the day goes by, it's like he was never paralyzed at all, which in all honesty, is true.

Dean's found them a hunt, a demon problem at Blue Earth, Minnesota, and Sam is highly amused at Dean's enthusiasm to tackle with them.

He picks up his duffel bag and hears a muffled thud and looks down to see the amulet.

The one he'd picked up the minute Dean had thrown it into the trash.

"Shit," he curses under his breath. He looks towards the open door to make sure Dean isn't looking and picks up the necklace. He opens the duffel and zips it into a compartment concealed on the inside.

He sets the duffel onto the bed and walks into the bathroom to look himself through one last time. He's been thinking about it for months now but was never really alone to try it.

He sets his arms out in a right angle in front of him, his one foot in front and the other tilted slightly at the ankle and behind the first. He remembers the mechanics of it. He pushes off with the foot on the back, bringing it towards his knees, pointing his foot while he lifts the one on the ground into _relevé_ while trying to get his arms to circle around.

His ankles twists and he wobbles on his one foot, crashes into the door of the bathroom and topples into the main room, sprawled on his back.

His eyes widen and he frantically looks towards the front door and heaves a sigh of relief to know that Dean didn't spot him.

He hastily gets to his feet, straightens out his clothes and picks up his duffel. He gives the room a once over and walks out, vowing to never tell Dean about this.

Ever.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! The end! If you liked it, please leave us a comment or a kudos. We’d really appreciate it. You can find us on Tumblr as [spnxbookworm](http://spnxbookworm.tumblr.com/), [chestercbennington](http://chesterbennington.co.vu/), [happilysammy](http://sunshinesam.co.vu/) and [winchesterpooja](http://winchesterpooja.tumblr.com/).


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